


You Take the High Road

by Jenalop3



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, dead bodies, description of corpses, mild gore warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenalop3/pseuds/Jenalop3
Summary: When lights go dim, power ceases to work, human advancement stutters and dies over night, and living nightmares prowl the edges of the waning light, Bruce and Natasha must lead their small group of survivors to safety while learning to cope in this new vastly different world and each other.





	1. Kamala and the Rotten, No Good, Deadly Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pizza joint shenanigans, then everything goes to hell

Flipt.

Flipt.

Flipt.

Kamala was officially bored.

She picked at the rubber button protector on the old cash register. The old jell-o feeling of the plastic was oddly satisfying, it gave under her fingers just enough, but eventually the old plastic would push back. She let the mat flop into place, the dirty opaque plastic obscuring the writing on the buttons, and pressed the beveled edges back into their grooves. She picked at the edge again, rolling the pliable mat back.

Flipt.

It was a quiet evening at the pizza joint, the entire town had migrated down to Memorial Park for the first of many bands to play for “Music at the Park”. It was something the little college town did every weekend, Friday and Saturday night, and it brought a ton of traffic through the little shops and restaurants along the square. Sadly, “Signore Brody’s Pizzeria” was not anywhere near the action.

Tonight the place was empty. Each table was vacant, the red and white checkered plastic tablecloths clean and pristine, the little red mosaic candle holders twinkled lonesomely with their faux tea lights. When there were people to occupy the tables the aged red brick walls, that hung with Mr. Brody’s personal family photos, and low ceiling gave the place an intimate and welcoming feeling. A feeling akin to just stepping into your Grandfather’s basement for Sunday dinner. Now, with no patrons, and the faint echoes of minor league musicians and a whole town having fun without her, Kamala wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door.

That's not to say Kamala didn't like her job, quite on the contrary actually. It wasn't a bad college gig. Mr. Brody was the type of guy that felt like everyone's Grandpa, doling out wisdom and low brow jokes whether you wanted it or not.

He was familiar for Kamala, who had wandered so far, there were plenty of people so like Mr. Brody back home. Here in a small college town in the foothills of Colorado she felt like an outsider.

Born in Jersey City to Pakistani immigrants, she was used to the hustle and bustle of city life, the close and comforting feeling of her family, and the tight knit Muslim community she was apart of. Her Abu and Mother probably wouldn't have even let her attend a school so far away from home and “appropriate influences” if she hadn't been offered a free ride. College tuition completely paid was quite the platform for an argument.

Colorado was big and free and wild, with ample space to move and grow. Kamala didn't know what to do with herself at first. It was downright daunting at times, but Mr. Brody’s big and callused hand felt much like her Abu’s when he rested it reassuringly on her shoulder.

“Lala! We are missing out girl!” Said Javier the bell tinkling as he pushed his way through the door, red delivery bag tucked under one arm, “That Zeppelin cover band they got is fucking mad good, bro!”

Kamala made a groaning sound, like Chewbacca and James Brown hand a short jam session, and oozed over the register reaching for the door and making little grabbing motions.

“Singing to the choir, gurl.”

Javiar Doolittle was the only other employee in today, other than Kamala and Mr. Brody. He was a year or two older than Kamala and was dabbling in a liberal arts degree. He smelled of pizza and bong resin, the odor clinging to his pours and burrowing atom deep. It was a unique smell that seemed to be practically native to college dorms, and one Kamala would always associate with school and Javier.

Javier was nice enough, despite his smell, he was what one would consider lackadaisical and perhaps even one of those “inappropriate influences” her mother was always railing about. But she liked Javier fine, he moved at his own pace, usually a few miles slower than most, but he managed to deliver Mr. Brody’s pizza in the ‘thirty minutes’ time frame. Behind the weed smoke, he was funny and very sharp, he was fun to work with especially on slow days.

“I hate this.” Kamala said and slid back behind the register, taking the mat with her.

Flipt.

“Slow days are my fav, there Lala. We get paid to do jack shit.” He let his top half pour across the counter, feet swinging behind him, and tossed the thermal bag haphazardly onto the pile.

Kamala wrinkled her nose at the nick name.

“I don't like it,” she wrinkled her nose even more, “ I feel like I'm cheating Mr. Brody.”

Javier rolled his eyes and blew a gust of air from loose lips, farting a raspberry.

“You’ve restocked everything? Done your wipe downs? Made sure the ice is full? Salt, pepper, hot flakes, parm on the tables? Mr. B most likely napping in his office?”

Kamala nodded her head into her palm as Javier ticked off their duties.

“Well then,” he pushed himself to his feet and clapped his hands, “what more can we do? We can't let the place get too clean.”

He leaned over the counter Chucks kicking in the are, fishing for the old, yellowed crossword book and brandished it in Kamala’s face. The pages, stuff with age hissed and crackled as Javier fanned it. The scent of old paper, ink, and mold smacked her face and settled in the back of her throat.

“How about a game of crosswords?” Javier asked, brows dancing across his forehead.

Kamala felt her hesitance dissipate like mist in the sunshine. She liked Crosswords, and it wasn't like there was anyone around who would be peeved about their slacking.

She could feel the bubbling grin spread across her face as she bounced to collect the pens.

As far as Kamala knew the game of Crosswords was entirely unique to “Signore Brody’s Pizzeria”. There was the completely plausible possibility that there were variations of the game found hither and tither, if there were bored immature adolescents about there was sure to be a game similar.

Crosswords wasn't quite at the immaturity level of say the ‘Penis Game’, or as painfully stupid as ‘Slap Hands’. Comparatively Crosswords was practically highbrow. If an employee was forced to describe what the game was, they would probably say something along the lines of - a Crossword puzzle and a game of Scrabble got drunk at a party and fucked each other's brains out behind a dirty dumpster while Bananagrams jerked off in the corner, the resulting hell spawn was the game of Crosswords.

The rules of the game weren't all that complicated; you used a pre-existing crossword puzzle, ignore the clues entirely and fill in the blanks with every low class and vulgar word you can think of. That's not to say you filled in the blanks with just ‘Fuck’ and ‘Shit’ and called it a day, oh no, there was some strategy involved. For instance, each word had to fit the given space, and you couldn't have the same words intersecting. You could use fuck, fucker and fucking to your hearts content, but they couldn’t intersect each other. If a word could be used in a derogatory manner, it was acceptable.

There was a rudimentary point system in play as well, it was simple enough, a point for each letter in a word double points if you intersect your own word. Once when the board will full to bursting with all the filth you could think of the person with the most points wins.

And so Kamala and Javier sat down to a friendly game of Crosswords, Kamala writing in red and Javier in blue. Javier was cleaver with his words, stretching the variants of the classics to just about their limits, while Kamala dug into the vast amount of outdated and colorful slurs she had heard slung around both Jersey and New York Cities.

“You can't use ‘Anal’.” Kamala said with a slight blush. She tapped her chin with her pen, studying the board with quite some intensity. She was trying her hardest to think of something she could use to intersect ‘bullocks’ and get that coveted double point bonus.

“Sure I can.” Said Javier.

“No, they use it in medical terminology all the time, not inherently offensive.”

“It's a sex position, the connotation is there. When I say ‘Anal’ most people immediately think about something getting shoved up someone's ass.” Javier crossed his arms. Arguing was also a very integral part of the game.

“Not necessarily, they could be thinking of someone who is meticulous.”

Javier sent Kamala a distinct look that screamed “bullshit”. Bullshit could intersect with bullocks, she thought and looked to the board.

No, no space for a seven letter word. Damn, fourteen points would have put her in the lead.

“And so what if it’s sexual, sex isn't a bad thing.” She said, thinking that's not how her parents would see it. Hell, her mother would probably die of shame right on the spot if she knew her little girl was play such a game. "And nobody would ever accept ‘Missionary’ as dirty, so why should ‘Anal’ count?”

Javier growled and threw his hands in a wild arch.

“So if that's the case, you can go to your parents and strike up a conversation about all kinds of sex positions. Imagine your parents hearing you talk about ‘Anal, Dirty Sanchez, Rusty Trombone, Alabama Hotpocket’.” He said, the beginnings of a smirk blooming across his weasel face.

“Ok, A, I don't think my conservative Muslim parents know what an “Alabama Hotpocket” is. B, I don't know what an Alabama Hotpocket is, and I don't wanna know.” She said quickly before he could inform her. She was reasonably certain it would fit quite nicely with Crosswords. “And C, I can't say ‘poop’ without them losing it. So that argument is invalid.”

“Still whether you like it or not the act of anal sex is considered deviant and not ok conversation material, and if it isn't ok conversation material is it not then vulgar?” Said Javier, doing his best haughty lawyer impression, pacing in front of the counter, hands clasped behind his back.

Kamala ground her teeth, gearing up for her rebuttal.

“If the kid wants anal so bad, let ‘em have it.” Said Mr. Brody in his deep and gravelly voice.

He stood in the entryway to the kitchen, the glaring fluorescent lights haloed in his grizzled gray hair. Brody was a stout man, wide through the shoulder and hip, with short sturdy legs. His arms where thick and heavy from years of kneading and punching pizza dough. Even somewhere in his seventies he looked though and could still give as much as he could take. During Kamala’s first day he had taken her aside and had told her it was perfectly acceptable to stab someone with the receipt spindle if the occasion called for it.

Brody stretched, spine cracking like a pop-gun, and sighed in relief as he scratched at his trouser seat. He hitched his apron under his gut and gazed over Kamala’s shoulder.

"Here Kamala-girl," he said through the toothpick clenched between his teeth, “let him have his piddly little word, and intersect ‘bullocks’ with ‘thundercunt’ here and you’ll have a nice lead.”

Kamala blushed at the crude word, but all arguments dropped from her tongue as she hastily scribbled it in. Eleven letters doubled is twenty-two points, a very nice lead, indeed. Javier huffed and puffed at the unfairness, throwing his pen and sulking into his crossed arms claiming nobody ever helped him.

“It's because you’re a foul mouthed punk so you already have an advantage.” Mr. Brody popped open the register with a clang and clink and started counting bills, “and, I like her better.”

“Awwwwwwww!” Javier, threw himself back in his seat, his hands splayed out to his sides, betrayal written comically on his face as he looked around the restaurant for support that wasn't there.

There was a faint boom and crackle towards the park and Javier blinked curiously out the dark windows. The low murmur of the crowd and faint rhythmic thrumming surged with boom, becoming louder and more chaotic.

“Awwwwww they have pyrotechnics? That isn't fair.”

Mr. Brody squinted toward the sound that had faintly rattled his windows. He dug his little finger deep into his ear, wiping what came out on his apron.

“Didn't sound like any pyrotechnics I ever heard.”

Kamala ducked her head, trying to get a good view of the skyline. She could make out the golden glow of fair lights backlighting the squat and tightly packed row of buildings down the street. She could just imagine it; large bulbs strung between tent poles, game booths with brightly colored prizes hanging from hooks on the walls, people milled in the flattened grass with their cups of lemonade and bags of cotton candy. The smell of fried dough and saw dust would be thick in the air, sweet and cloying. Vendors would be set up in little pop-ups in vast rows with their displays filled with hand made who's its and what's it's. Above all the noise of people have the time of their lives, the band would be rocking and jamming up on the bandstand.

Then rising from behind the extravagantly decorated bandstand would eventually come something villainous, perhaps an angry scientist with a giant robot, and just like back home this self aggrandizing dingus would ruin the good times of everyone. He would crash through the band stand, sending the musicians tumbling, and then start in on the tents, sending them ablaze with his robot’s flamethrower arm, and just like back home in Jersey City, Kamala would have to put this jerkwad back in his place.

Kamala bit her lip and stained to hear the people beyond the layers and layers of brick, wood, horsehair plaster, and cinder blocks. All she could make out was the faint murmur of voices and the tune of “over the hill” or maybe “ black dog”, from this far away it was hard to tell, in the air.

“Dude, your older ‘n dirt, the only pyrotechnics you can hear are the ones coming out your ass.” Javier slapped the counter top breaking Kamala from her thoughts.

A very unladylike snort erupted out of Kamala loosening snot. She slapped a hand to her face as she now laughed in earnest embarrassment. She forced those thoughts to drift away, that was Jersey City, this little rinkydink college town set snug in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies was not nearly was crazy as aback home.

Anyway, with the mass influx of vigilantism that New York seemed to be experiencing, the chaos that Ms Marvel would encounter had dropped to the occasional robbery. It had become quiet enough that Kamala felt comfortable about retiring her alter ego for a few semesters and take advantage of a free ride.

Mr. Brody gave Javier the “I’m watching you gesture” over his broad shoulder. Things soon settled down, Kamala got herself cleaned up and Javier found his pen again. The younger two traded turns scribbling on the board, Kamala secure in her giant lead while Javier wracked his brain for anything game winning. Mr. Brody finished with the register and poured himself coffee from the sludge that had been warming since early in the afternoon, he doctored it with heaps of sugar and a healthy dose of creamer before settling his bulk at the counter seat next to Javier. They played their crude game, chatting and giggling, Mr. Brody giving pointers and Javier playing up the melodramatic ‘woe is me’ routine. An hour passed as they sat and wasted away the time, the bell above the door never tinkled and the phone didn't so much as buzz with a telemarketer.

After some time, when Kamala hand secured the game and had taken to decorating the page with her victory and Javier’s loss, Mr. Brody stretched and rose from his chair. He crossed to the kitchen doorway tossing his chewed toothpick in the trash.

“I'm calling it a night,” he said peering to the dark streets outside. “Kamala-girl, why don't you wipe down and stack the chairs then cash out the register. I have dough left enough for two personal pizzas, cheese alright, girl?”

Kamala gave a thumbs up and stowed the book and pens in the grimy little cubby shelf under the counter. After getting a warm and soapy bucket of water she went to work on the tables, swirling the dingy rag over plastic red and white checker board patterns, and swiped the tops of the condiment shakers. It was monotonous work and Kamala let her mind wander.

As much as she did like the change of scenery, she missed donning her scarf and mask and kicking bad guy butt. There was a thrill while she was Ms Marvel that she didn't have while she was Kamala Khan. She could be bold and brash and nobody would lecture her about virtues, but at the center of it all she was helping people who couldn't help themselves. Fighting for the overlooked people of Jersey City, her neighbors and folks she grew up knowing filled her with a pure righteous protectiveness. She was the momma bear and no one was allowed to harm her city. Though that didn't mean she gave beat downs indiscriminately, no half the time the idiots that held up the CircleQ had troubles of their own and needed as much help and sympathy as the victims. That was perhaps the part she enjoyed more that the butt kicking, the moments when she talked someone into putting down the gun and rethinking their options, which is part of the reason she was out here pursuing a minor in psychology. Her decision to major in creative writing was already giving her parents aneurisms, but she might as well make money off a hobby, right?

It was then, as she was stacking chairs upside down one the tables, that she saw it.

It was merely a flash in the corner of her eye, and she almost shrugged her shoulder and continued her work, except for that nagging feeling. It was an odd little feeling, an age old instinct kicking in subconsciously telling her something was wrong, like when someone moved everything in the room an inch to the left. She couldn't tell what was wrong only that something was. It was something she had learned to listen to in recent months as she played at hero, and that sense had served her well.

She exhaled, cheeks puffing out with the cleansing breath. Nothing seems out of place, tables and chairs where they should be, photos dusty on the wall, the tinny sound system churning out cliched Italian music, quiet clanks echoed from the dish room as Javier lugged out the mop bucket, Mr. Brody could be heard humming with the music as the heavenly smell of baking marinara and mozzarella floated warmly in the air. Everything seemed to be kosher in the restaurant.

Still, that prickle continued to run the length of her spine.

"Relax Kamala, your letting your nerves get the best of you.” She said to herself, this feeling of ice cold anticipation had to be caused by her reminiscing.

Right?

She gave her head a little shake and grabbed up paper towels and the Windex, she would finish in the dining room, cash out the register, take her dinner and bum a ride with Javier back to her dorm. Safe there she could eat herself into a pizza coma and binge X-Files on Netflix, all the while cozy in her dorm with her sloth plush in her nest of pillows. She can burry the instinct to take action, suffocate it until it went away. She wasn't in the city, she was in bumfuck nowhere, and nothing happened way out here.

Then just as suddenly, movement across the street, quick and hardly perceptible but she knew she saw it.

She squinted through the windex, and there, distorted by shadows and cleaning products was a shadow a shade of two darker, hunkered in the mouth of the alley catty-corner to the restaurant. Kamala focused on the shadow, large and amorphous, it sat just beyond the reach of the orange flickering glow of the street lamppost . It was hard to tell where the general dark started and the shape began, she squinted and pressed her nose to the glass. Just before she could convince herself it was a cat on the dumpster, and she was going insane creating monsters to satisfy her hero complex, the shadow moved.

Like slick oil, it rippled, a head turned, and Kamala found herself locking eyes with something she couldn't quite put into words. The large silver disks were wide and spaced far apart, and looked almost segmented. They shone like fresh quarters, flat and reflective, with an almost bored intelligence. Ambient light glinted and shine fully off the thing, smooth like old leather, not furred. There was something wrong about the shape, nothing quite adding up naturally in the darkness.

Her stilled caught in her throat, and her entire body froze. Like a hare coming face to face with a hound, her limbs were stiff and ready to bolt, there was no more room in her mind for any thought more advanced than “run, run, run, hide, live, run”, she almost forgot her name.

In the stillness , the silver quarter eyes blinked slowly, and the shadow body they rested in shifted lazily. Cat like and graceful, the mismatched shadow stretched from its crouch, the eyes traveling higher and higher but never breaking from her own.

Kampala stood, insides frozen, as she watched the shadow beast with silver eyes, fill the space between two buildings. She should move, embiggen herself, and confront the creature. She should smash the danger with her large fists. She should scoop up Mr. Brody and Javier and bolt out the back with elongated legs not stopping until she reached New Jersey and the safety of her warm home. She should act fast like the hero she was.

Instead, she was petrified to the spot, eyes wide and dry, she refused to blink and miss the beast move. Her limbs stiff, her bladder heavy, and her world focusing becoming a pin point of focus.

Slowly, languidly, like it hadn't a care in the world, the shadow beast blinked its shining silver eyes and every light blinked out of existence at once.

Kamala didn't hear the frantic cries from far off in the park, she didn't smell the smoke billowing thick in the night sky. She was unaware of the crashes and cries from the kitchen, or the ripping and splattering and the stench of blood and vile spilling to the floor.

In the pressing dark, there was only Kamala and the silver quarter eyes.


	2. Natasha on the Sidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha isn't having the greatest of days.

* * *

Natasha was nervous.

She didn't usually do nervous, yet here she was wringing her fingers discreetly in her lap and grinding her molars into dust in her mouth. She was jittery, and uncomfortable in her seat. The fine hair on her neck was rigid and erect, sweat dried and itched across her skin, shrinking tight over her bones. Once again she took stock of the armory that was her person; the Glock at the small of her back, the knife in her boot, garret wire wound around her wrist and the razor sharp pins woven into her hair, not to mention the collection she had to leave with security. It gave her the slightest of relief to catalog her tools, but despite every method she knew to quiet her mind and focus on the mission, that jittery feeling would rise like a looming leviathan. It was for this reason that she had avoided these escort missions.

Ok well, that was a lie, or rather a redaction of the entire truth.

It was true her stomach was sour and twisted into knots. Her muscles stiff and alert, she had an unprecedented bought of Jimmy-leg that would’ve never plagued the Black Widow before, but it was nothing she could t have felt with in any other situation. No, the real reason she never took up these escort missions was sitting on the other side of the one way mirror, being aggressively interviewed.

Bruce Banner sat politely attentive in his straight back metal chair. His forearms rested on the table top, fingers loosely woven together. He looked calm and collected, easily answering each and every question thrown his way. There were signs of his usual wariness, a twist of his lip that can only be described as sarcastic, dark eyes sweeping and soaking in his environment, a minuscule bite to some of his answers. It wasn't annoyance but rather inconvenience, so long as it wasn’t a raging inferno of anger and panic hell bent on destruction and escape. Which was good, seeing as they were sequestered under quite a few layers of sediment and rock.

Natasha quickly calculated the last time she shifted her weight, deemed that enough time had past that if she did it again it wouldn't be read as anxious. Not that Pepper or Happy would think less of her.

This whole rigamarole was thanks mostly to Senator Ross’ insatiable need for control, specifically controlling the Hulk. It was really no secret that Ross spent the better part of his military career running down Bruce, though time and again Bruce has proved himself to be far more wily and slippery than Ross could have ever anticipated. Bruce was the Fox to Ross’ Hound, the Jean Valjean to his Javert, the Roadrunner to his Wile E. Coyote. His obsession with capturing Bruce went farther than simply recovering government assets and property, Bruce was the only real visible stain on a rather illustrious military career.

Bruce and Thor’s sudden and unexpected arrival to earth, via the always inconspicuous Bifrost, had been quite the snag during the tenuous period of transitioning over to the rules and laws outlined by the Accords.

Natasha remembered the careful negotiations, testing the waters and prodding the limits of the newly instated Regulations Board. It was a very touch and go process wooing the Board to favor them more than Ross, and if there was anything to be said about the four remaining Avenger, they could flirt and schmooze with the best of them.

Tony flaunted his wealth and flexed his influences. Rhodey displayed his position as Colonel and showed off his dedication to his country. Vision was impressive alone, but his vast intelligence, mastery of the Mind Stone (not that any outsiders had an inkling of what it truly was) and remnants of JARVIS’ genteel programming were really what adhered the Board to him.

As for Natasha, this part of the mission was small potatoes. Wooing people in power was something she had been trained to do since she was a girl, Hell if she wanted to she could do it with her eyes closed, it was that easy. Bat her eyelashes, show some leg, make an intellectual connection, and stroke some egos. It was all so formulaic and easy.

Things had been going well. They had made themselves into model heroes, perfect assets for world wide protections and peace. Their approval was on the up, their leashes were going slack and collars loosening, freedom and understanding was on the horizon. And more importantly – according to whom you asked- Ross’s position was slipping.

That is until Thor and Bruce, the strongest Avengers, the wild cards, appeared in a rainbow storm right in the middle of Rhodey’s tomato patch.

Natasha closed her eyes and exhaled a calming breath as she remembered _that_ meeting. Scrabbling to smooth ruffled feathers as Thor laughed in the faces of Ross and the Regulation Board. Ross had smelled blood the moment he had got word of their arrivals, he had found a focus and he had attacked with cunning, baiting the two strongest.

"What is this?" Thor had said, voice booming with incredulous humor. He thumbed through a copy of the Accords. “Now we must have permission to save lives?”

His mocking laughter was sharp cracking lightening. Tossing the stack of papers, to the table. He turned to look at his remaining team members, incredulous amusement fluttered across his face.

“My friends, have you truly set your marks upon this dragur tripe? Please tell me this is merely a jest, one of your hiding camera programs?” He sent a quick glance about the room, scanning lamps and vases suspiciously.

Natasha had remembered Rhodey calmly grasping Thor’s giant bicep and squeezing until the tendons stood out in his hand. Thor graced him with a half hearted wince, and leaned down when he caught the meaningful glare Rhodey aimed. He whispered furiously into the big Asgardians ear, and Thor’s expressive face ran the gamut of furious righteous rage to deep concern and finally to a sly type of conspiratorial smirk.

Natasha had fought the urge to roll her eyes. Subtly was never an Asgardian’s strong suit. Even Loki was more misdirection and truth twisting then anything else.

While Thor voiced his opinion, quite loudly, Bruce and Ross stared each other down. Ross sat in his chair, fingers steepled a slow smirk working its way under his mustache. Papers and pens strewn about him, his lackeys gathered about whispering in his ear. His cliched resemblance to the archetypal villain would have been humorous, if the situation wasn't so tenuous.

“You may do as you like, Mr. Thor,” Ross said with far too much teeth, not taking his eyes off Bruce “Sign the Accords and stay here or take your tractor beam back to Middle Earth, I don't care. What concerns me is Doctor Banner and his inability to control the Hulk. It is evident from past events that he is a danger to the public and should be taken into custody.”

Tony snorted, eyes hidden behind dark designer glasses, and mimed pressing a buzzer.

"What is the best way to piss the Hulk off, Alex.” He said “You don't exactly have the best of tract records. I believe every one of your attempts to apprehend Bruce has caused a Hulk-Out and damage that could have been avoided, your batting oh-for-oh there, pal.”

Ross growled, his mustache quivering under his nose.

“The Hulk isn't some sort of stray kitten you bring home from the streets, Mr. Stark. He is a beast, and has caused massive amounts of destruction and lives. If we don't contain it now it will happen again.”

There was a general rumble of anger from the Avenger side of the table. Scoffs and fists meeting wood jostled water glasses, threats of lawyers were made.

“You dare!” cried Thor, leaping out of his seat and through Rhodey’s grasp, reaching automatically to his waist for the absent Mjölnir.

Even a few board members shared uncertain glances with each other.

Through it all Natasha watched Bruce.

He was seated in the plush conference room chair with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze leveled implacably on Ross. There was no flush of green running up his neck, or the unmistakable gleam of gamma swimming in his irises, he wasn't even tense as Ross and the others gnashed their teeth..

If Natasha knew any better, she would say he wasn't paying the argument much attention.

A few short months ago he would be viciously chewing at the pad of his thumb, chest heaving with breathing exercises as the Hulk writhed through his veins. Presently he held himself differently, a streak of confidence in his spine, an awareness in his eye. He looked almost unworried under Ross’ accusations doing and saying nothing to defend himself.

Vision clicked his tongue, a mannerism he seemed to have picked up from Darcey Lewis, calling attention to himself.

“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity, Senator.” He said slowly, thinking through each word carefully “You have come after Doctor Banner time and again with aggression, and each time you have been met with hostility and failure. It has come to be accepted, amongst my teammates and myself, that the transformation is a defense mechanism. The destruction and chaos only happening when he is protecting himself.”

Vision had fallen into complete lecture mode.

“Although he was integral in my creation, I do not know Doctor Banner all that well, but I do know my friends,” he gestured to Natasha, Tony and Rhodey. “quite well in fact. I have read their reports, their thesis’, and I have seen the recording of their training sessions. It appears to me that the ‘Lullaby’ technique, that was being developed, could have been most successful. The way to cooperation with the Hulk is with patience, kindness, and peace. Through the combined successful efforts of Doctor Banner and Ms Romanoff at developing calming techniques, it is more than apparent that Hulk is safest here, with us, with people who don't wish him harm and who accept him for what he is.”

The board members murmured and hummed to each other, conferring the pros and cons of each side. Finally a man who bore a most striking resemblance to a pug spoke up.

“Doctor Banner,” said the Pug man with a heavy German accent. “We have heard from your companions and Senator Ross, but not from yourself. What is your opinion, as you are truly the expert with all things Hulk?”

Bruce had sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing absently at a spot just below his sternum. He was silent a moment, lips moving minutely, like was was having a silent conversation with someone. Finally he look up at the Pug man, and said, "I really don't think a cell is the answer, and not because I don't want to be in one,” he slipped his glasses from the bridge of his nose and polished them with his shirttail, “I really don't, but because I don't think a cell could ever hold the Other Guy for long.”

“Is that a threat, Doctor?” Asked the Pug man, surprised.

“No,”Bruce answered calmly, explaining himself “it’s an undeniable fact. Imprisonment has been tried before, and has failed. It's like having a boiler with no pressure release valve. All that energy collecting is a small space with nowhere to go.”

He shrugged and set his glasses on the table top, before immediately picking them up and fiddling with the arms again.

“I believe being amongst familiar and trusted faces would help in the long run. When he’s pani… when we are panicked, that's when we are truly dangerous. We understand that punishment is due and we will take what is coming, I just don't think incarceration is the safest answer for everyone involved.”

Natasha had started at his correction. Bruce had always made sure there was a distinct divide between him and the Hulk. Always “him” or “The Other Guy”, Bruce and Hulk were two distinct entities that hardly cooperated. It was never “we”.  
  
“I see,” Pug-Man blinked his watery eyes and petted his thick dark mustache.

Ross had snorted, his knuckles rapping a quick and agitated staccato against the expensive dark wood of the conference table.

"Isn't that what they all say? A weak plea to avoid justice.”

Natasha then leaned forward, keeping a close eye on Bruce in her periphery.

“Who's justice, Senator? Perhaps we should lay out all the dirty laundry and go from there?” She arched a knowing brow. “Unlike some, when Hulk is in agitated his actions are of escape. When in his right mind he has shown awareness, understanding and even empathy.”

“Considering the traitorous circumstances, Romanoff, I don't believe you should even be here let alone have a say.” Ross groused through a snarl, brushing off an advisor.

Natasha had ignored the jab and continued.

“Wanda Maximoff has admitted to her actions leading up to the disaster at Johannesburg, and I can attest first hand to how debilitating her machinations can be. It's nothing short of a miracle it wasn't worse.”

Bruce pressed his lips into a thin pale line.

“And look where Maximoff is now?” Growled Ross, ugly, angry puce splotches bloomed on his cheeks,“I would think any sort of statement from an escaped felon to be insubstantial and void.”

“You put that girl in a straight jacket and doped her up until she couldn't tell up from down. She had every right to run and protect herself.” Tony growled through a wolves grin, ripping his glasses from his face and tossing them to the table.

Ross had whirled back on Tony, a mad dog snapping.

“She broke the accords and international law, she attacked you and your team, AND she escaped from the Raft! The most secure prison in the world, or so you've told me.” Ross hissed, spittle flying from his mustache and thrusting a finger at Tony. “And if I ever find a shred of evidence you helped them escape, I'll throw you into the bottom most cell and sink the damn thing myself.”

“That is enough, Senator!” The Pug-Man had griped a handful of Ross’ jacket sleeve and was tugging the other man back to his seat. “Perhaps it is best if you and the Avengers take a recess while my fellow Board members and myself discuss a solution to this matter.”

Ross had left then, anger radiating out of his very pores. He strode in long angry strides making it to the double doors in a few steps and slamming them after himself, leaving his assistants to gather their papers and folders and scamper in his wake.

The Avengers were far more subdued, but no less furious as they made their way, giving curt nods and short handshakes with the Board Members as they left.

It took the Board many hours to deliberate but finally they came up with a decision that somewhat satisfied both sides. It had been decided that the safest place for Bruce and Hulk would be within the walls of the Avengers Facility. There were few around who were familiar enough with the Hulk to be of any help keeping the big guy in check. To appease Ross, the Board had ordered Thor and Bruce submit to rounds of physical and psychological evaluations.

Thor, of course, breezed through his with flying colors. He was the epitome of Asgardian health, and blew the human criteria out of the water. He wowed the evaluators with feats of strength and agility that far out classes the most seasoned Olympian. For the psychological portion of the evaluation, the doctors and evaluators had to work on a bit of a curve. A semi immortal god that was born and raised on an alien planet was allowed some slack. He talked with them for hours, regaling them with stories of battles and his childhood spent in the golden city of Asgard. He talked at length about his father's wisdom and his mother's kindness and the pranks he and his brother would get up to as “striplings”.

The only snag Thor seemed to come upon, was the actual signing and agreement to the terms spelled out in the Sakovian Accords. He just couldn't understand why he needed permission to protect Midgard, it was his cosmic responsibility, his solemn oath had been given. On Asgard there was no need to ask permission to save civilians or watch your partners back, they knew warriors were bound by oaths older than time to protect them. Why would Midgard muddy that simple and honorable tradition?

It was Rhodey who had shooed the others out of the kitchen with his crutches, and sat Thor down at the breakfast bar with a long line of beer bottles.

“Sit down, I’m gunna tell you something.” Said Rhodey as he handed over two bottles and the bigger man opened both in an easy twist of his wrist.

“As you wish, my friend.”

For quite a long time they sat secluded at the breakfast bar, broad backs hunch and turned towards the others sitting in the living area, doing whatever they could to pretend they weren't trying to listening. Slowly, little by little, Thor worked his way down the line of bottles as Rhodey explained why such a thing as the Accords was even in play. He explained to Thor the the civilians of Midgard felt powerless, when their cities and towns are damaged, it is both traumatizing and disheartening to them. Their livelihoods were disappearing before their eyes, that there were legal and monetary repercussions to the Avengers actions.

When Rhodey had finished with his lesson, Thor had pulled the waiting Accords to himself. There was a deep crease between his brows and a hefty slump to his shoulders as he drained the last two bottles in quick succession. He flipped through the document, thinking more than reading it, before heaving a sigh so deep it came from the depth of his soul and scrawled his name - both in Ruins and English - across the bottom.

For Bruce it was a circus of different specialist, allowing strangers poke and prod him, reviewing abbreviated descriptions of the circumstances and procedure of Hulk’s “birth”. They dug deep into wounds shoddily stitched, they unearthed his mother and father, found records of rash decisions made by a bullied teen, his periodic communications with a person under the alias “A-Bomb” while he was on the run, his failed relationship with Betty Ross. They questioned him about his activities abroad, his seemingly sudden stop to an endless quest to quell the Hulk, the technique he used for calming himself that had roots in tai chi and capoeira, secrets of multiple countries he had stumbled upon while doctoring the sick. They asked about the months he spent off world and what cosmic knowledge he could have come across.

The evaluators deliberately poked the sleeping dragon, and if Natasha was forced to bet, she would say Ross had put them up to the idea. It was a struggle to keep the evaluations as fair as possible, but there was only so much that could be done. Thor or Tony provided a safety net of sorts, one or both would accompany Bruce to his sessions -as it was a condition of the agreement - until he cleared his evaluations, Bruce couldn't walk outside of the Facility without an approved escort.

But with Thor’s impromptu return to Asgard and Tony being a lousy piece of chicken shit where Pepper was concerned, meant that Natasha had to step up, seated in a dim cramped observation room, watching Bruce force a neutral expression as Ross’ hand picked inquisitor grilled him in an effort to glean information about his psyche.

She hated observation rooms. Cramped and confined, there was little room to maneuver if she had to. The smell of thick damp hung heavy in the air, moldy grave dirt that tickle the back of her sinuses in the worst way. The low ceiling, with its oatmeal vomit texture, fell oppressively on her shoulders, pushing and cramping her into a box. This uneasiness should have been trained out of her years ago, yet here she was sitting on pins and needles, feeling like a sick voyeur in the dark as she gazed through the one way mirror.  
  
“He looks calm in there.” Pepper said, whispering the words from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flicked from the bright rectangle of fluorescent light, to Natasha seated at her side.

Natasha fiddled with her Styrofoam coffee cup, the dark liquid having long since cooled to viscus swamp sludge. She scored indents into the foam with her nails as she inspected Pepper out of the corner of her eye. She was just as nervous as Natasha was, knuckles tight white around her phone, her color pale under her makeup, and a wide, shining worry deep in her eyes.

Natasha heaved a sigh and force a small reassuring smile. “He does,” she agreed. “He’s doing well.”

"Good," Pepper breathed, the word ghosting on her own sigh of relief. “I worry, you know, about all of you.” One slim pale hand floated to the elegant chain of shrapnel that drifted beneath her blouse.

Natasha cocked her head, forcing a reprieve from her anxious fidgeting and focusing on Pepper.

“You needn't, we’re big boys and girls.”

She snorted delicately, twitching one brow and giving Natasha a flat look.

“I couldn't if I tried.” She shrugs and checks her phone, the light illuminating her face and deepening the dark hollows. She slides her thumb along the screen briefly skimming texts and alerts. “You bunch have a distinct disregard for your own safety, I sometimes feel like the Den Mother of a hyperactive daredevil scout troop.”

She gives a soft, fond chuckle and sets her phone on her lap. “I’m fairly certain that you bunch purposely do some of those hair brained stunts just to give me a heart attack.”

“How’d you know?”

That gets an amused snort from Pepper.

“You are all bad influences on each other.”

Natasha allows a true smile this time, a small quiver at the corner of her lips.

Pepper returns the smile, reaches out and pats her knee. Perhaps Pepper wasn't wrong about being the Avenger’s den mother, Natasha thought as she accepted the comfort that Pepper was offering her.

“He’s doing well in there,” Natasha reiterated, tentatively giving the other woman’s hand a small unpracticed squeeze.

Turning in her seat and setting down her cold coffee cup, she cut a quick glance to the second Psychiatrist. He was busy jotting down notes as he carefully observed the evaluations. He wiped a hanky over his sweating brow, never pausing in his hunched scribbling.

Happy quietly loomed over the man, standing far to close and breathing down his neck. S.I.’s head of security had quickly staked a spot directly behind the Doctor, and stood uncomfortably close, allowing his presence to fluster and intimidate. Just a reminder to play fair, or else.

Thick arms crossed over a barrel chest, a hounds frown tugged his lips in a slight snarl as he lorded over the Doctor. His small watery hounds eyes caught Natasha’s, a small mean grin twitch his jowls before it hardened once again.

Pleased with Happy’s initiative, Natasha turned and pitched her voice low, head tilted, and said to Pepper “He’s nervous, you can see it in his posture, although he isn't playing with his glasses - which is a dead give away - he is hiding it well. He sees the game the Doctor is playing and won't let him egg him on.”

At Pepper’s quiet subdued gasp, she sagely nodded.

"These are supposed to fair and unbiased evaluations? Is he being payed off?” Pepper asked matching her tone and leaning close.

Natasha narrowed her eyes as she studied the men on the other side of the glass. Both sat, squared off, at a small metal table in the center of a fortified room in the guts of the testing levels. Perhaps the room was for experimental engines or the like, it was large enough that Hulk would only have to stoop a tiny bit when it was his turn to play. The walls were thick, reinforced concrete painted a thick drab taupe, made strong enough to contain what ever malfunction Stark Industry employees could throw at it and hopefully strong enough to give Hulk a pause, if worse came to worse.

“Probably, easy money is on Ross,” Natasha said, “Its hardly out of the realm of possibility that he could have a doctor or two in his pocket.” Natasha didn't have to explain how detrimental to all their work a negative mark on any of Hulk’s evaluations would be.

“Less likely, the guy might just be a masochist and the idea of poking the big green rage monster bear is enough to get him off.” She shrugged in a who knows gesture. “But whatever it is, Bruce’s lack of negative response is irritating him.”

It was true, when they had both sat down, the doctor had been smooth as oil with a wide crocodile grin, but as the evaluation progressed and Bruce didn't rise to any of the Doctor’s jabs his mood became more and more sour.

“That's cruel and underhanded.” Pepper scowled, and Natasha thought for a moment she might stomp a heel.”Is there anything we can do? Stop the evaluation? Petition for a new evaluator? I can get someone on this immediately, if we need to.”

"At the moment? No." Natasha had been wary of Ross undermining the evaluations ever since their meeting, and had been meticulously reviewing the recordings of the previous sessions. “If there is any tampering going on, there are ways of finding out.”

Pepper nodded, eyes wide and mouth forming a tiny “o”.

“If you do manage to uncover any shady dealing, please consider the host of bull dog lawyers Stark Industries has to offer. We’d be glad to help in any way.”

She and Pepper shared positively shark like grins, more feral teeth than anything. It was nice to know there was an option to legally destroy Ross as well as her less than savory outlets.

“Well then, Doctor Banner, I think that will be enough for you today.” The Doctor on the other side of the glass said, gaining the attention of the occupants in the observation room. The Doctor seated behind Natasha, gave his neck a quick crack and scribbling something down on his legal pad, “I think it's time we talk with the Hulk.”

Bruce scrubbed his hands over the scruff of his cheeks, and Natasha could just imagine the grainy scratch against her own. She swallowed hard, her eyes completely glued to Bruce, the others in the room falling into oblivion as he nodded and stood from the table.

“Okay.” His soft voice was scratchy and tinny as it floated through the audio system. He methodically pushed the metal table up under the one way glass, flashing a blind reassuring look through the glass. Shrugging from his sports coat, he hung it neatly on the back of his chair, then toed off his shoes as socks, followed by his button up and dark slacks. Soon he sat cross legged where the table once stood, clothed only in his extremely stretchable uniform jammers.

“When your ready, Doctor.” The Phycologist said with a flourish of his pen, settling back into his chair with his legal pad balanced on a knee.

Bruce closed his eyes and breathed deep once.

Twice.

Three times.

With each breath his spine straightened and pulled his shoulders back, opening his chest. He relaxed back on the sturdy pillar of his back, his body grounded on the cement. His boney ankles pressed into the floor and his wrist resting loose atop his knees. He sucked in each breath, deep and slow, his chest expanding rhythmically like a bellows.

He sat still, deeply breathing for quiet a few moments, eyes flickering beneath lids, his lips pressed together. No person dared move in both the observation room or the testing room.

And then it happened.

Green swelled in Bruce's veins like a tsunami, his skin visibly breaking out in gooseflesh, hair standing on end. He groaned low in his throat as his shoulders and chest expanded, corded muscle swimming under his skin. He pitched forward catching himself on growing knuckles as he grew and swelled. His low moans turned to deep thunderous growls, his stretching and straining bone and tissue was clearly audible.

Natasha has witnessed many of Bruce’s transformations. She has seen him battle himself as he futilely tried to stem the eruption of green rage, or willingly step back and allow the Other Guy control. She has seen transformations caused by panic and injury, Bruce falling into oblivion to be replaced with Hulk.

But this one, despite the ever present discomfort, was the smoothest, calmest transformation she had ever seen.

Natasha felt her stomach clench with something like loss, as Hulk relaxed into his seat, leaning back and carefully stacking each vertebra on top of each other. He exhaled in a great breath, his shoulders relaxing and his fists slowly unclenched finger by finger, and finally his dark doe brown eyes blinked open.

He ignored the Doctor at first, curiously taking in his surroundings. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, tasting scents unknown to common human noses. His gaze soaked everything in, the drab walls, the covered sockets and carefully tucked wires, the shining metal table, with Bruce's clothes folded over the chair. The mirror captured his attention, he scooted towards the surface on green knuckles. There wasn't an ounce of burning rage in his dark watery eyes, only mild curiosity and recognition.

Natasha leaned forward in her seat, ducking her head she tried to meet his gaze through the one-way mirror, his eye were full of animal intelligence, sharp and wild, with a hidden benevolence. With the rage and confusion not contorting his face, she could see Bruce there. The refined slope of his forehead, the angle of his jaw, his roman chin, and the engraved worry lines, all marked him as the same person. The border between the two was thin at this moment, ever since he stepped from the blazing rainbow of light if she was being honest. Natasha’s heart ached with both joy and sorrow. Hulk was there in Bruce and Bruce was there in Hulk, he had cast away his chains when he had left earth, and her. Without her he had crossed that chasm into self understanding and co-habitation of two wills in one body.

He did it all by himself, all without her.

Hulk reached out and stroked the smooth glass with the back of a huge crooked finger, delicate and gentle, the glass fragile spun sugar under his touch. Natasha wanted nothing more than to banish the glass.

The doctor’s sudden cough ripped Hulk’s attention from the mirror. Slight irritation skittered across his brow, but he backed up and settled himself into place across from the Doctor.

The Doctor gave a thin crocodile grin and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Good afternoon, my name is Dr. Scott, but if you like you can call me Al.” He said in an overly condescending tone.

Hulk gazed at Dr. Scott unimpressed.

“Dr. Scott.” The rumble of his voice was so deep the human ear almost couldn't register it, instead it was felt with the body, vibrating through delicate bone and cartilage. Hulk dipped his chin slightly, back ever ramrod straight, eyes never leaving Dr. Scott.

Dr. Scott cleared his throat again and made a note on his pad.

“Ok, to each his own,” he said low on a breath “ And what may I call you?”

The Doctor re-crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knee, he had adopted the manner and tone of an adult speaking to a child, and Hulk had clearly noticed.

Hulk rolled his eyes.

“Bob.” He growled low, biting sarcasm thick in his deep voice.

Natasha blinked. She recognized the petulant reply for what it was, but could hardly believe it. Hulk was never the most vocal green rage monster she knew, sticking mostly to monosyllabic grunts and roars. When he did find his voice, his words were short and simple, with their intent clear, never had she thought he was capable of sarcasm.

“Bob then, ok.” Scott scribbled on his pad.

Hulk grunted, crossing his tree trunk arms over his huge chest.

“Alright then, Bob, shall we jump right into it?”

Hulk’s response was a simple shrug.

“Alright,” Scott clasped his hands,” let's keep this simple to start, eh? Can you tell me who you work with?”

Hulk gazed at him suspiciously, trying to suss out what game the Doctor was playing.

“Tony, Thor, Steve, Colonel Rhodes, Helen, Natasha,” He said finally, rattling off the names hesitantly, giant fingers tapping his knee counting each one. “Vision, Pepper, Clint, Sam, Erik … Jane… Happy…”

Dr. Scott hummed and furrowed his brow dramatically.

“Are you sure? I'm fairly certain some of those people have only ever worked with Dr. Banner.”

Hulk snorted and jammed his thumb into his chest, “ Banner knows them, I know them.”

Another note.

“Some of those people have done a bad thing, you know. They disobeyed and escaped a place for bad people.”

Hulk shrugged.

“What would you do if you ever saw them again?”

There was a sly meanness in his voice that made Natasha squeeze her hands into tight fist, nails digging deep crescents into her palms.

Hulk unworried, scratched at the coarse stubble of his neck, his Adam’s Apple as thick as a baseball dipped under thick green skin.

“Depends on what I was told.”

Natasha relaxed slightly. A vague enough answer.

Apparently that was satisfactory enough for Scott as he made a series of scribbles.

“And what do you feel when you are working?”

There was a brief pause where Hulk finally unpinned his gaze from Scott. His eyes darted to the side and he looked as if he was listening to someone. Fine muscles in his face twitch, ghosts of words breathed softly past lips.

"Good." He finally growled

"Why?"

Hulk looked slightly annoyed but he obliged the Doctor.

“I'm helpful, I keep people safe. I like that. Banner feels the same way, the others know we like to help more than smash,”he flashed a small smirk, “ and we do like to smash.”

“You’ve mentioned Dr. Banner a few times, do you communicate with him?”

Hulk shot him an incredulous look, a brow arching high, green skin rippled across his forehead.

“Sometimes he's there, sometimes he's not.”

"What about now? Is he here now?”

Hulk shrugged.

“Now according to Doctor Banner, you were the primary personality to be present while you explored the galaxy?”

A furrow grew between thick brows. “Huh?”

“You, were the one to spend time in space?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And what was that like?”

Hulk spread his great green hands wide. “Alright, lots of smashing, that part was fun.”

“And what about the ‘other part’?”

“That was Banner.” He said, ending that line of questions.

“Interesting,” Dr. Scott hummed, eyes narrowed, “ok now Bob, we’re going to try something a little different.”

Natasha didn't like that look at all, Hulk was doing incredibly well, and she had a sneaking suspicion that if this man was in Ross’s pocket these results were unsatisfactory. She cast her eyes quickly about the room, perhaps there was a way she could disrupt the evaluation.

Nothing. The small observation room offered nothing she could use for a quick distraction and extraction.

She wasn't the only one to sense that Dr. Scott's next set of questions would be pivotal. Pepper is ramrod in her seat, her long nails clutching at the fabric of her skirt. She held her phone discreetly recording the evaluation for herself, the part of Natasha’s brain that worked in spy mode twenty-four seven approved. Happy had ceased his looming and had moved to stand at Pepper’s shoulder, the incessant scratching scribbles of the second Doctor had stilled. The air became thick with silence in those few crucial seconds before Dr. Scott dropped the shoe.

"We’re going to play a little game,” Scott said pleasantly, pulling a manila folder from under his legal pad. “It's an easy game, I'm going to show you pictures and your going to tell me the first thing that pops into your mind, any words or feelings, anything, no wrong answers. Ok?”

Hulk reluctantly nodded, sensing that Doctor was setting a trap, but clueless as to what it could be.

“Good.” He riffled through the folder, the dry paper a Rattlers warning. “What do you think of when you see this?”

Scott pulled a scene from the folder. Bright sky alight with fading light, blushing reds and deep purples swirled through the background. The foreground was scattered with bright vibrant flowers, petals in their prime, feather light, they bobbed in the mild breeze. Pines arched far in the distance, their greens deep and majestic. Centered in the middle of the photo, framed by the flowers and distant pines, stood a towering peak, blue gray rock dusted the craggy foot and snow reflecting the brilliant colors of the sky at a deeply cratered peak. Mount St. Helen, if Natasha wasn't mistaken.

Hulk leaned forward, resting his bulk on his knuckles, squinting down at the photo. He studied it for some time, tilting his head this way and that.

“Pine.” He says at last, “it smells strong. Something new, and letting go.”

Scott nodded, made a note and pulled out a second picture.

“And this one?”

A black and white photo of a worn woman stared back at him. She sat with her chin in hand and small children burrowing their faces into the hem of her dress. Her eyes were striking, so old and worn, they bored deep into your very being. It was the ‘Migrant Mother’.

Hulk moaned deep in his throat and his face softened from indifference to sympathy.

“Sad, strong, stones in the ocean.”

Then Scott pulled a print of “Guernica” and Hulk physically recoiled at the sight of the writhing, disfigured, and suffering subjects.

“Sharp, boom, angry, poof gone… guilt” Hulk brought his hands up to rub his elbows and wouldn't look back at Scott until he put “Guernica” away.

“Very good.” Said Scott, pleased.

The next photo Scott pulled looked like it had been clipped from a larger portrait. The clipping was of a pretty woman with slim shoulders, dark hair bunched at her nape, and kind eyes hidden in deep shadows. She looked weary, so young yet so tired.

Hulk had gone perfectly still. He said nothing.

Undeterred Scott pulled another photo and held it up next to the woman. It was the mate of the first, a broad shouldered man with a crew cut, his jaw square and hard. A scowl had been permanently etched under his nose, his frown lines deep fissures.

Hulk still showed no reaction.

“Nothing?” Scott asked, a cruel little smirk played at the edges of his lips. “Well then, how about this?”

He pulled a photocopy of a newspaper article. The headline, in large letters read “ WOMAN SLAIN IN SELF DEFENSE”, the photo beneath was of a quaint brick home surrounded with police tape, officials milled about the yard with neighbors corralled behind the tape. A lump lay prone in the middle of the driveway, covered with a white cloth, a dark and ominous stain leeching away from the nucleus.

“Anything? What about this one?”

A second article, this one with the headline “LABORATORY ACCIDENT LEAVES TWELVE DEAD AND MORE INJURED”. Natasha didn't need to see the grainy photo to know it was a shot of the Culver campus.

She had shot to her feet, chair skidding and falling behind her, but before she could reach the door and shove a widow bite down Scott's throat, Hulk was on his feet. His roar was defeating, shuddering dust from the ceiling.

He easily filled the huge space, the back of his dark hair brushing the hard ceiling, his shoulders hunched. One great fist was dented in the concrete floor, supporting his massive body as his other fist was raised to strike. Scott screamed in terror, his fun having gone to far. He threw himself backwards, falling over his chair dodging Hulk’s massive fist. Scott dropped his papers and photos in a shower of glossy prints and inky scrawls. Hulk rushed forward grabbing up the photos and notes tearing into them, ripping them to confetti.

Scott skittered to the wall, feeling blindly for the door. He cowering in a heap in awe of Hulk’s rage. His breath was fast, chest working hard, his eyes wide under his arms, a frail attempt to protect his head from the unrelenting rage.

But the blow never came.

Hulk had paused, ugly snarl frozen on his face, massive chest heaving, bits of photos and notes falling about his ears in a gentle snow. He had his head had cocked, a hound pricking his ears. Everyone had gone deathly still, waiting for the Hulk’s next move, and that’s when they heard it.

A dull rumbling thud.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Hulk lower his fist and looked up.

Another crash, louder than the first rumbled through the walls shaking the equipment. The power whined futilely, before failing entirely, throwing everyone into darkness. There were screams of surprise and fear, both underground and faintly above. After a few seconds the back up power kicked to life, the emergency lights glowed dull red.

Like a green flash Hulk threw himself into action, rushing to the wall that separated him and the others. He brought his great fist against the barrier, cracking and splintering the glass. He beat against the glass and wall like a man possessed, eyes wide.

Another shudder ran through the building, greater this time, deafening and throwing Natasha from her feet. The rumbling and crashing grew more vicious, bits of concrete and detritus rained from above.

“Get away from the middle, go to the wall!” Natasha shouted, stumbling to her feet.

The others rushed in a mad dash, hunkering under equipment and clinging to the safety of the sturdy walls. The steady glow of red light, stark blood against pale skin and fearful faces, Hulk roared desperately, fists unceasing.

“Stay down! Sta—“ a sharp pain bloomed from her shoulder to the back of her head.

Natasha’s vision blurred and swam. A breathless gasp forced itself from her lungs. Her knees turned to water and faltered, she fell heavily to the ground, warm wetness sticking through her hair and jacket. From far, far away she head a dull thud and a roar and boiler hot arms wrapped around her like bands of iron. She tries to blink away the creeping blackness but it was too much and she falls into unconsciousness to a symphony of screams and collapsing concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to say that this update is misleading, I wont be posting this fast from here on out. I just wanted to get things rolling a bit.
> 
> As always, ireallyhopethismakesuseven is the absolute best! Thanks for everything!


	3. Bruce finds that Hulk isn't good with pep talks. Or any talks really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's subconscious really doesn't like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore Warning, just FYI.

Hulk is edgy.

Bruce can feel him stir and prowl under his skin, all caged wildness squeezed in too small a space. He rubbed at the spot just beneath his sternum to ease the phantom pressure.

“Relax will you.” He thought as he reached for his tooth paste.

The low growl echoed between his ears.

“ Everything will be fine, we just need to be on our best behavior.”

“Easy for you.” The disembodied voice said.

Bruce started dolefully at his reflection, curling salt and pepper hair, finally filling in the uneven cropping it had received. His dark eyes hid under heavy brows, red rimmed and sagging, prominent crows feet scratched at the corners. The golden hue he had gained while on Asgard had faded almost instantly, bleached lab complexion his cross to bare. Deep furrows trenched his forehead and corners of his mouth. He looked old, when did he get old? He scratched at the day old stumbled that dusted his chin and cheeks, white flecked here and there, some tooth past and others not. He sighed and spat into the sink.

“It's not easy for me, Aunt Susie just did a good job training me.”

Hulk sulked, grumbling in the back of Bruce’s head.

Hulk had been in a mood since they set foot back on Earth’s soil. Bruce had ideas as to what the root of Hulk's fouler than normal mood was; The Accords, Ross shoving his nose into Bruce's business, the schism between his friends, Natasha. Well perhaps not her exactly. There were few who could do very little wrong in the Hulk's eyes and Natasha was pretty close. His alternate self adored her, not that he didn't, but Hulk’s adoration was simpler with less baggage. She helped him and treated him like a cognizant friend, not a beast, and that had won her Hulk’s undying support. Bruce's feelings for her were far more difficult and convoluted and Hulk had been nothing but vocal about Bruce's waffling.

All in all something had gotten stuck in the Hulk’s craw, and he refused to acknowledge it. Instead he preferred to sulk like a pissy teen and give Bruce one hell of a headache.

“Look we nail this and it's over, we beat Ross at his own game. He can't touch us or anyone else ever again, by law.”

That seemed to brighten Hulk up a bit. Bruce had a quick vision of a humiliated Ross flash behind his eyes and a wash of triumph came to him.

“Just one measly conversation, and you show them that we aren’t a threat, that we can work together.”

“Not good with words.” Hulk mumbled as the vision and the feeling faded.

“I know, but they aren't really interested in your conversation skills. They have specific questions with specific answers, tell them what they want by being as truthful as you can.” Bruce applied shaving cream to his jaw and meticulously ran a razor through it. “And Tony will be there, he’ll have our back. Ross won't be able to pull a fast one on us while we are distracted.”

Tony had been one of his saving graces through these attacks on his characters, and if Tony was unable to be there Thor would lend his might to the cause. Nothing kept people in line like a giant unimpressed Thunder God. It felt good to finally have two strong and influential allies in his corner. Tony had sense a kindred spirit the moment they met, and had dug his claws into Bruce, and he dug them even deeper after the past months events. Thor was a surprise, but Bruce supposed he shouldn't be. Asgard had quiet the interesting culture, and Thor liked to make friends with his fists. Not many Midgardians could take a friendly fist bump from an Asgardin, Hulk provided Thor a playmate that could take a godly punch as well as give one.

Hulk eased off a bit, a low appeased hum vibrated through Bruce‘s skull.

"If you say so Banner.”

Bruce sent a wash of calming feelings, cool and blue, to the mental giant settling down in the back of his mind. He wiped the rest of the shaving cream from his face as Hulk sunk farther and farther back, giving Bruce his privacy while seeking his own. He finished his morning routine before setting out to find Tony somewhere in the vast depths of the Avengers Facility.

Bruce had been pleasantly surprised to find that he quite liked the Facility. It reminded him a bit of a burrow, a rabbits warren of halls and corridors, labs and conference rooms, hangers and exercise spaces. The metal and glass framework allowing the warm sun to caress heads and necks, the natural light comforting, and the view of the sky and the tree line was fantastic. It was comforting and secure but not claustrophobic. He could stretch in this place with little worry of damage, something he couldn't rightly do in the Tower, hundreds of feet in the air above one of the worlds busiest cities.

Here the summer crickets chirruped love songs, and fireflies danced among open skies. He could see familiar stars - that he hadn't seen in ages - from the large windows of his room; Orin, the Big Dipper and Venus like old friends that held the comfort of never changing.

There was an odd sense of community to the place as well. Most of the staff either lived nearby or on premises in anything from permanent quarters to come-n-get-em style barracks. This secluded and albeit downright weird commune style of living has ingrained a sense of camaraderie from the most secluded lab rat to the gossip hungry secretary. And Bruce felt that welcoming belonging almost immediately.

There were looks and there were stares of course, but it wasn't exactly fear, more curiosity. Then, with very little pomp and circumstance, he was promptly accepted into the day to day grind. Employees and Staff said good morning and good night, they smiled in the halls, they stopped to share a joke with him showing almost zero fear for the Other Guy.

Maybe they were vetted to be accepting, maybe they were payed to play nonchalant. Bruce didn't care one way or the other, he like the illusion of normalcy veneered thinly over the weirdness. Hulk liked it too. He almost seemed to bask in the attention, hidden away in Bruce's head.

He supposed with all the extraordinary people who lived and worked here, weirdness was normal.

Finding Tony in these labyrinthine halls wasn't as much a daunting task as it would be for anyone else. Tony did have his particular haunts; his private rooms, the team common area, the cafeteria, or the slew of specialized labs, all one really had to do to find Tony Stark was follow their ears until the glass shattering rock n’ roll was almost too much to bear.

The wailing of electric guitars and abused vocal chords was becoming clearer and clearer the further Bruce ventured, he listened to the echoing cacophony. Not AC/DC so testing upgrades was out, nor was it Black Sabbath that went with the clanking of assembly. Not Nirvana or Metallica, so he wasn't up to any research.

He found the door he was looking for, vibrating in its frame with sound, the tune was to jumbled with reverberation to rightly pick out the artist, until he pushed open the door and the tune untangled itself into Geddy Lee’s reedy voice.

Bruce entered the room, the space wide and the ceiling high. There was a gym smell to the place, antiseptic cleaner, stale sweat and pungent feet. Obnoxious weight gear and an array of punching bags and exercise machines lined the far mirrored wall. Looking up, the ceiling was webbed with crisscrossing beams, studded with a tangle of jungle gyms, swings, bars and uneven hoops. It looked like someone had taken a gymnasts dream obstacle course and stuck it to the ceiling upside down.

Tony stood center on the large circled “A” printed on the squishy blue mats that cushioned the hard floors, his feet bare and toes digging into the slight give of the material. He was tapping blindly on a data-pad, his fingers flying with confidence over the screen. His head was tilted back, a barely audible string of instructions and comments was being called to the two figures weaving through the hanging obstacles.

Vision floated through the air like a dolphin through the surf. His arms loose at his side and his body perpendicular to the ground. He arched and weaved through the jungle gyms with mechanical grace and ease. His Polo shirt and Bermuda’s clashed horribly with his maroon skin, though Bruce didn't think the synthetic Avenger cared much.

He chased a smaller figure through the beams and hoops. Peter couldn't fly, but it sure looked like he could if he really put his mind to it. He flung himself around, as naturally as a fish in water, on thin strands of silk, shooting the material from little distributors attached to his wrists. A wide grin plastered itself across the kids flushed face, he looked to be having the time of his life dodging and ducking the pursuing Vision.

The music dimmed as FRIDAY’s sensors tracked Bruce's entrance.

“Good morning, Doctor Banner.” The AI greeted him, her accent thick and sunny.

“Morning, Fri.” He returned, waving to the empty spaces of the room where he imagined Friday would be standing and observing.

“Kermit! Your just in time, get a load of this.”

Tony beckoned him with a sharp gaunt chin. A sad acidic burn filled Bruce’s lungs, he hadn't gotten over the shock of Tony’s haggard appearance.

He swallowed the burn, and made sure his concern was hidden under a mask of mild curiosity. He had tried to open that can of worms and Tony had done his own set of verbal gymnastics, instead Bruce would wait for him to decide to talk. It usually worked best that way any how. He toed off his loafers and joined Tony on the “A” in his socks.

“Check it, Bruce. Vision, Fri, and myself have been testing the Kid’s ‘Spidery-Sense.’” He said wrapping the phrase in air quotes.

Peter groaned and slipped from his perch in a hoop to hang upside down by his knees. Vision, floating idly by, startled at Peters sudden drop, dropping a few feet himself.

“Sorry Viz.” Peter said offhandedly.

Vision blinked up at him, calmly and serene, offering a shrug.

“Spidery-Sense?” Bruce couldn't help but ask, as he watched Peter climb fearlessly above their heads, Vision following a respectful distance, a careful spotter just in case the kids sure footed grasp slipped.

"Spidy-Sense.” Peter corrected, peeved glare pinned on Tony.

“No matter what spider prefix you use, it ain't ever gonna sound cool.” Tony called before tuning back to Bruce. “It's like some kind of precognitive awareness to danger.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, its freaky ass shit, you gotta see it!” He elbowed Bruce in the ribs and called up to Peter, who was making lazy flips, bar loose in his hands, his weight balanced on his gut. “Ready for another round, Kid?”

“Another wha..”

Immediately there was a rapid sound of metal clicking against metal, then a barrage of hollowed distorted ‘FOOWM’s and the cold hiss of compressed air.

Peter acted immediately, completely on instinct. One minute he was hanging lazily, like a monkey on a vine, the next he had launched himself into the air, contorting his lanky body to miss the barrage of bright red rubber balls. His body arched, feet sticking like a tree frog to the side of a beam. He dodged another volley, the rubber balls pinging harshly at the spot Peter had just vacated. He made an easy front flip and he fell through the air, whipping out an arm and shooting webbing from the contraption strapped to his wrist. He swung low, letting his momentum build before arching his legs and shooting another string of web.

He vaulted himself through the uneven hoops, hands over feet, and each time the red rubber balls only seconds from striking him. He ping-ponged himself from wall to wall, practically vibrating with pure energy.

And as if the rapid barrage of rubber balls wasn't enough, there was a constant string of words leaving his mouth.

“Ahhh Stark, no fair, not giving a guy the heads up.”

“Watch out!”

“Wrong side!”

He vaulted over Visions head, as a ball whizzed through his suddenly insubstantial body.

“Viz! That's no way to get ahead in life!”

Peter tumbled and somersaulted through the air, each and every rubber ball missing him by inches. He was fearless of the death defying heights at which he played, as only adolescent males could be, broken bones and fractures the last thing on his mind, climbing higher and higher, diving into free air and catching himself just before his nose brushed the blue mat.

Even with Vision acting as a spotter, floating just far enough behind Peter that he was barely in the way, Bruce’s stomach lurched and flipped as Peter preformed his daredevil acts. Tony kept an eagle eye on the boy, and Bruce could tell that he was ready to toss the Data pad to the side if the kid showed any sign of a misstep.

Finally the ball launcher chugged emptily, rubber balls spent and scattered forlornly across the gym floor. Peter landed lightly on the floor with all the excitement of a puppy. His hair was a flyaway nest of sweaty curls and his dark eyes bright with exertion and expectation. He waited on tenterhooks, dancing from one foot to the other waiting for Tony’s evaluation.

“Not bad kid,” Tony praised, not looking up from the data scrolling along his pad “though we might have to tweak the calibration on your shooters, I’m reading fifteen milliseconds worth of lag between pressing for distribution and the damn thing shooting, does that sound right to you, Viz?”

“Fifteen point six five, but Peter’s reaction time and spacial awareness seem to make up quite well for the timing defect.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his mouth, discreetly hiding a blooming smile. The kid had swelled from the praise, chest puffing and non to subtlety preening.

“We should run some diagnostics on that sucker, upgrade the firing mechanism if need be. Friday, bring up the schematics for the web shooters in the lab.” Tony called, Peter dancing from foot to foot and Vision floated interested overhead.

Bruce’s brain had just begun the gearshift into R&D mode when he glanced down at his watch, and his excitement faded. Noon was creeping up and the QuinnJet’s engines would be warmed and waiting soon. Subtly Bruce elbowed Tony in his ribs, cutting him off mid ramble and pointed to his watch.

The joy of engineering fell from Tony’s face as he comprehended what Bruce was signaling to him.

“Umm, Kid, why don’t you and Viz get a head start on those shooters, remember to have FRIDAY start recording your tests.”

Peter cocked his head, slight concern playing between his smooth brows, but it faded as Vision took the hint and headed for the smaller adjourning labs.

“Go on kid, I’ll be right behind you.”

“Ok, Mr. Stark.” Reluctantly Peter allowed Vision to steer him out, sensing a tension to something he wasn’t privy to.

“What about a pressure sensitive mechanism?” Vision asked, expertly distracting Peter, getting the tires of his mind to start rolling.

“That might fix the delay, we might have to build in a finger print identification mode to keep it from being on a hair trigger.” Their voices faded as they left the room.

“What's happened?” Bruce asked, bracing himself for bad news.

Tony sighed, tucking the Data Pad under an arm and guiltily tugging at an earlobe.

"I’m sorry Kermit, I thought FRIDAY sent you my message.” He sent a side eye glance to empty air.

"You sent it only few minutes ago, Boss.” FRIDAY’s omnipresent voice sounded smugly throughout the room.

“Tattle tail.” He muttered then sighed deep “I’m not going with you this time, buddy, I’m so sorry.”

Bruce felt himself deflate at the news, his throat clenched with the beginnings of nervous panic. Thor had unexpectedly been called home to Asgard the night before, some political business that needed the attention of the entire royal family.

Tony must have seen the disappointment on his face, and he rushed to explain.

“Pepper thinks it would be prudent if she were there this time, ya know. Since the evaluations have been taking place on SI property the CEO should be present for at least one. A show of good faith and support for you.”

Bruce felt his stomach sink.

“Oh, well… that makes sense.” Bruce muttered fiddling with his watch. “And that means you can't go?”

“I’m sorry Big Green… it’s just, Pepper.” Tony shrugged at a loss for what else to say.

Bruce understood, in a way. Tony and Pepper’s relationship had been… turbulent since he had left.

The gossip mill was happy to fill Bruce in on the goings on during his missing months, and one of the biggest topics of discussion was Pepper and Tony.

Most of the Avengers kept out of that kind of business, not for lack of concern, but anytime the topic was breached Tony would clam up tighter than Cap in a strip joint. The Staff of the Facility, though, loved nothing more to cluck and speculate nonstop about how the couples relationship status, or “lack” of one. The two were almost too diligent in not appearing in the same places, so much so that it was almost conspicuous. When pushed, Tony says something about letting her steer the ship and evades the question all together. Rumors ran rampant through the glass and steel halls, Tony and Pepper’s secret affair, people spotting them leaving far flung rooms disheveled, Pepper receiving gifts with a distinctive Stark flavor, Tony texting and video messaging someone he was wary to let people in on.

Bruce suspected that there was something to the rumors, but why the secrecy?

He could allow Tony and Pepper to do their dance, wallow in self loathing, and sneak around like a couple of teenagers at a prep school giving each other hickies in utility closets. Whatever got them off, but at this moment it was presenting him with bit of a road bump.

“Regulations say I need an Avenger present when leaving Facility grounds,” he said slowly, probing for an answer to a question he had a pretty good idea the answer to.

With Tony conceding to Pepper, Thor back to Asgard, Vision not ready to make solo public appearances, and Rhodey on medical leave, it left very few options as to who it would be.

Tony nodded sympathetically.

“Not only are we Science Bro’s, we’re Lady Problem Bros.” Tony grimaced and held out a fist.

Bruce weakly tapped his knuckles to Tony's.

“And yet here you are throwing me under the bus.”

“Yours is just a world class spy and assassin,” Tony snorted, stuffing his fists in his pockets, “mine happens to be a feisty CEO, who runs my family's company and knows my social security number.”

“Yeah, terrifying.”

"Well, she likes you, so you haven't seen her mad.”

**

Hulk had become agitated again. He was buzzing in Bruce's head like a gang angry hornets if they grew green and awe inspiringly strong when agitated.

“Coward!” Hulk barked and flushed Bruce with enough disdain for the eccentric engineer to make his eyes water.

“Stop that, Tony doesn't have to come along if he doesn't want to.”

Hulk rumbled, and forced a vision upon Bruce.

His vision swam, and his feet stuttered to a stop as the image appeared to Bruce’s minds eye, as clear as if he was there himself.

A cold and clear landscape bared itself to him. The snow thick and banked up high along tree trunks, the pine boughs drooping low under the heavy blanket of white. The sky was the brightest blue Bruce had ever seen, so bright and so blue it would have made his eyes water. The snowy groove was quiet, the only sound was the soft muffled sound of snow falling.

And then they were there, materializing out of the glare. The wolves moved through the snow as graceful as shadows, hot breath freezing in the frigid air, their yellow eyes bright and intent. Their fur was thick and warm and their teeth strong, they moved as one with a single purpose, tongues lolled as they dogged the heels of a tiring elk.

The animal was old, his tines knobby and back-grown, falling down his back in twisted and crooked shapes. His strength was failing in old age, but the wolves weren't ignorant enough to rush the old timer out right. His antlers were still sharp and his hooves hard and sturdy, it would do the pack no use to be gored. Instead they slunk low into the herd, down wind and slow. They forced their selected target from the safety of the crowd, and ran him to near collapse, snapping and howling at his heels, until there was nothing left for the elk to do but succumb to their teeth and claws.

The wolves hunted with a mechanical beauty. Each animal knew where it had to be and what it had to be. They were cogs moving smoothly and seamlessly together to power the bigger machine, the Pack. Without their total cooperation and trust the pack would fail and they would starve.

Bruce pushed through the vision and into the Facility hanger.

“Things are never that simple.”

“They are,” Hulk’s deep voice sounded almost gentle,”people just like to make things messy.”

Bruce couldn't exactly disagree with his giant alter ego on that point

“You make things messy.” Hulk said, and Bruce could feel his attention turn toward the humming QuinnJet.

Below, in the hanger proper, the paneled doors had been collapsed and pushed to the side leaving the entire wall open to the beautiful New England summer. The sky baby blue and cloudless, song birds flitted to and fro chittering. The low drone of cicadas floated on the mild breeze, waxing and waning. Pollen danced thick in the air, catching sunlight and glowing like tiny fair folk. Fresh cut grass, far off pine and the perfume of wild flowers tickled Bruce’s nose. The scents warm and peaceful, and brought a surge of childhood nostalgia of running and rolling wild through sun warm grass.

Below, standing just inside the bay doors, in a golden pool of light with her face turned toward the warmth, was Natasha. Bruce's chest clenched at the sight of her, a vision enough to compare with the likes of Aphrodite herself, but he knew Natasha was no idle beauty. Her wit razor sharp, and more cunning than a the Trickster God, she was courageous and selfless, and despite how she was raised, kind. To Bruce, she was perfect in her imperfections, in her commitment to do good, and Bruce knew he wasn't worthy of her.

She stood below making idle chit chat with Pepper and Happy, well more Pepper than Happy, who was sulking in the QuinnJets shadow. Bruce hesitates on the cat walk, caught in admiring her from a distance. The warm summer sun caressed her skin catching in her red hair, setting it aflame in a gold halo. One hand rested on a canted hip, the other gesticulated around her words. She wore bug-eyed sunglasses perched on her nose and her lips were painted to match her hair. A slight smattering of freckles graced the bridge of her nose and cheeks, glowing from days spent in the sun.

Another vision came unbidden to him just then, this time a foggy memory. The empty haul of the QuinnJet, “JARVIS is my copilot” stark blue against the dull gun metal gray. Her pleading voice, the panic shining through the chipped paint of her forced calm. Her lips painted this time with her blood and her short hair mussed with dirt and dust. The look of desperation crystal clear before the holo was shut off and he was alone in the heavy silence.

“Don't try to pawn that all off on me,” he said with a forlorn sigh “we were in agreement. We had to leave.”

Hulk grunted.

“She deserves better than me, anyway.”

“Yes.”

“You know, you’re not that great at the whole motivational thing.”

Hulk shrugged and settled back in Bruce’s mind.

"You want motivation? Quit being a whiny puny weakling and show her your interested.”

Bruce felt the rush of primitive instincts to posture and fight for the affection of a female. To show her he is the best male and worth her time and courtship. To beat his chest, to strut and to fight.  
  
“You and I both know that won't work.” He said flatly.

Bruce had decided long ago, while he still sat huddled in the back of Hulk’s consciousness traversing the last frontier, to let her set the pace. Perhaps it was a form of self punishment, perhaps it was appeasement, but just like before she would have the control. If they were to be anything, it was up to her. If she wanted to go turtle slow easing back into familiarity, he would put a snail to shame. If she wanted to drag him by his collar into the nearest empty room to have her way with him, he would be happy to oblige. If she wanted nothing more to do with him, he could bite his lip and let her go.

He had done the leaving, he made the offense, and he would take his medicine in whatever form it took.

Hulk groaned, and Bruce knew his beastly alter ego would be rolling his eyes.

Happy caught sight of Bruce then, stalling on the catwalk caught in his own internal conversation. Happy waved and called a greeting.

“Then be alone, puny Banner.” Hulk said as Bruce finally descended the metal steps to join the others.

Pepper was first to greet him, holding her arms out to him, and gathering him into a tight hug. Bruce felt Hulk rumble in the far corner of his mind, he sounded rueful and unsure.

“Just think, Banner, if you weren't such chicken shit, you could give Natasha what Pepper has found.”

Bruce pulled away from his friend, blinking in confusion.

“I didn't think you payed attention to rumor mills?”

Hulk didn't answer, he had already retreated and the only thoughts in Bruce’s head were his own.

"Bruce? Bruce, are you alright?"

He blinked and looked down to find Pepper grasping his arm in consented amusement, her brows knit and her touch kind.

“I'm fine,” He said overly brightly and tapped the side of his head, “Other Guy’s been chatty, we're both a little nervous”

Still not entirely convinced, Pepper patted his arm reassuringly, “ If you say so.”

She paused, giving him another hard look. “I'm sorry to ruin your routine and for the short notice. You did get my message?”  
  
He nodded, “Tony relayed it to me.” He said, while bending  
down to collect Pepper’s large designer tote. As he did he caught sight of Natasha studying them. He could see the shadow of her eye lashes flicker behind the dark lenses, her red lips pinched and a slight furrow appeared between her brows.

“If we plan on sweeping Ross’s feet out from under him, we need to show that both sides of you are reliable and trustworthy.” Pepper rambled, flipping her phone between fingers.

“So he will behave?” Asked Happy, gruff and to the point as always, offering Bruce his giant paw of a hand.

The man was built like a boxer, and if his knobby crooked nose had anything to say, he probably was once. Stocky and wide, Happy had an intimidating presence, heavy brows sat like gargoyles over dark and drooping hounds eyes.. Happy was a good, honest and loyal person, never shying away from saying whatever was on his mind, not caring for the diplomatic art of dancing around a subject. Bruce liked that, it was a breath of fresh air.

“Only if you will, Hap.” Natasha smiled beneath her wide sunglasses, it was ferocious and exhilarating. Poison apple lips bared sharp white teeth. Her hip was canted just so, leather jacket riding up as she propped a hand on her hip.

Bruce swallowed hard and looked away before he could do something stupid.

Happy scoffed, “It’s my job to make sure everyone else behaves, Rushman, not myself.” He growled rising to her bait.

“Oh, Happy! Please don't tell me your still hung up about that?” Natasha laughed, false and a touch cruel. “That was almost ten ago years ago now. Surely you have forgiven me for doing my job since then?”

Happy turned quite an interesting shade of puce as he sputtered and growled, finger clenching by his side.

“Now, now,” Pepper interjected, before Happy could start a losing verbal war with the ex-spy. “we're not here to argue. Isn't that correct, you two?”

Both Natasha and Happy had enough good grace to look abashed.

“He’ll be good.” Bruce quickly reassured.

Happy nodded gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good, let's keep that confidence going and show Ross we won't be cowed.” Pepper trilled.

“Exactly.” Natasha agreed, linking her arm through Pepper’s. “ And if we play our cards right, we will be Ross-less soon enough.”

The two red heads laughed like young school girls, planning the demise of a loathed rival. The made their way up the gangplank and into the belly of the QuinnJet, heads close together as they schemed.

Happy breathed deep through his nose, and settled his heavy hounds gaze on Bruce.

“Piece of work, she is.” He glared balefully up the gangplank.

“You know Natasha pulls your leg because you react like you do.”

Happy spits and gestures Bruce to go ahead.

“Spies always play games, good thing you got out when the getting was good.”

Bruce nearly stumbled, his feet suddenly sticking like Peter’s, as a vision of Natasha’s face swam before his eyes. Contorted with slight static and fuzzy around the edges, she was calm and composed, her voice sweet and pleading, a sirens song that called to him. She was worn and beaten, busted lip raw and red with blood slowly oozing from a cut hidden in her hairline. Her eyes were hallow and sunken, pain and worry etched into the tense lines at the corner of her mouth. ‘Hey there, Big Guy,’ her voice was steady in his ears, not betraying any of the panic and fear he could see peeking through the loosened seems in her facade. ‘Suns getting pretty low’ pale delicate hand, nicked and bloody, stained with dirt and gunpowder appeared on the screen, palm out. He almost raised his own and to meet her phantom palm.

Bruce made an effort to steady himself, entertaining the fleeting thought of turning swiftly, grabbing Happy by his collar and making him understand that that wasn't Natasha, not anymore, not with him.

“Yeah, good thing.” Bruce said, faking a laugh and forcing his feet to behave. He stumbled to his seat, face warm, and keenly aware of Natasha’s sunglasses following him. He secured himself into the uncomfortable seat and pulled a Science Journal from his bag, pretending to be engrossed in the articles and essays.

Happy was a good guy he reminded himself and the feint growl from deep in his hind brain. Vocal and opinionated, but a good guy. He was offended, and sometimes people don't think when they're hurt, he tried to reason. Still it wasn't until they were air born and speeding west, racing the sun, that his breathing evened, his white knuckle grip on the Journal eased, and his chin started to bob off his chest.

Just as he was nodding off, falling under the spell of warm air and the hypnotic human of engines, Hulk had the final word.

“Coward.”

~*~

The cabin of the QuinnJet was absolutely still.

He couldn't feel the dips and bumps of turbulence, his feet were steady on the floor. The sound of machinery was missing, no steady hum of the engine, no practically unnoticeable beeps, and clicks. The air was still and thick, like a long abandoned attic, musty with old paper, mothballs, and partially decomposed furniture.

It was curious, he thought unbuckling himself, they must have landed. But why wouldn't anybody wake him?

He unbuckled himself and saw that the rear hatch was open. Morbid curiosity tugged him to the hatch. Bright white light glared through the opening, casting deep undulating shadows in the cockpit. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce thought he spied writhing shapes in the dark recesses, familiar figures that tickled at his recognition.

He walked slowly through thick drifts of dust that muffled his foot steps to a quiet, lonely tread. Each step kicked up dust to dance and drift in the still air, they swirled and sparkled in the harsh light, tiny fae taking wing to dance their wild dance about his ankles.

He came to the edge, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, but soon he was squinting out into a vast ocean of clouds. Thick and downy, ink in water, the clouds swirled large and lazy far, far below. He couldn't see clear sky above or land below, just a vast swath of swirling steal gray clouds. He felt dizzy at the never ending sight, vertigo making the world dip under his feet and his head swim.

Bruce swallowed thickly and clamped his eyes shut so hard that they watered. He moved away from the edge, fingers finding tiny nooks to grasp tight. He needn't have bothered, there wasn't a breath of wind to claw and drag him out into the endless abyss of clouds.

Like a ghost, he smells rosewater then, strong and cloying with a hint of something else, breaking through the dusty decay and mothballs. It's sticks to the back of his throat, a thick layer of cellophane clinging to his wind pipe. He coughs and gags on the sweet smell, his stomach clenching in knots of anxiety.

“Bruce.”

The voice is soft and breathy, fragile. He is immediately reminded of the frail, rasping voices that wavered from deep in sickbeds. Bruce feared to turn, not wanting to see. He clung to the wall in a desperate attempt to keep his feet still, eyes still clenched tight.

But it was a futile effort.

“Look at me, Bruce.”

Bruce liked to think his years of exile would have hardened his resolve to iron. Or perhaps his childhood spent under the suffocating weight of his father's violence. Either way, he thought he could resist.

It wasn't so.

He turned and there she was, pale and beautiful, glowing white in the dim of the cabin. Red hair flowed lose around her shoulders, curling and coiling like ribbons of blood. A chemise hung from her shoulders with thin spiders silk straps, small pearl beads ran along the fitted bust, the skirt flowing loose about pale knobby knees and shapely calves.

She took a step toward him, bare feet padding lightly on the diamond plate. Bruce felt his chest convulse as she came near, beckoning him close with a slim, milk white hand. He stumbled forward, her sirens song too strong, and fell into her arms.

“Natasha.” He gasped into her shoulder, the smell of rosewater and that something else stronger than ever.

He had missed her touch, her presence, her. He clung desperately to her, burrowing his nose into the spot between neck and shoulder. In space, light years away, at the edge of the galaxy, it was easy to temper his yearning. He had bundled the memory of her in fine paper and placed her in the back of his mind, only to be taken out and examined when safe. Back on earth and confined to the Facility, it was hard to keep his feelings neatly packed away, especially when she was giving him the cold shoulder.

But now, he was in her arms, she was holding him, running her cold fingers through his hair. He blinked, that wasn't right. He found her skin was cold silk under his hands, and a worm of fear squirmed in his gut. Bruce pulled back slightly, cupping her cold cheek, inspecting her face.

It was as it always was; heart shaped with delicate cheekbones, full lips and upturned nose, sharp angles and soft curves. Strong and defiant and capable of such goodness. Yet there was something off. He caressed her cheek with his thumb, her pale, pale cheek. There was no hint of color, no flush of rosy blood beneath the thin skin. She was flat, paper white.

Natasha nuzzled her cold nose into his palm, her dark lashes fluttered against the soft flesh of his thumb. She gazed up at him, through her lashes, and her hazel eyes seemed far too bright and vibrant in her pale face. Like glass eyes, doll eyes.

“Something's wrong, Nat.” He said, his fingers unconsciously smoothing the silk low on her back.

She hummed, her fingers trailing up the lapels of his jacket, her nails making a soft scratching sound along the wool, a soft vipers warning he didn't think to heed as her nails dove into the soft hair at his nape.

She pulled him close, so close he could feel the frost of her skin on the tip of his nose and lips. He could feel the length of her pressed to him, the soft dips and swells of her, the smooth silk of the chemise that blended into her skin, the delicate lace work and pearl beading along the bodice.

“Why, Bruce?” Her breath was cool on his skin, her lips fluttered against his. He had to force himself not to take her full lip between his teeth and bite. “why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?”

“I had no choice.” His voice sounded strained, filled with yearning.

He wanted nothing more than to kiss her - her lips, her chin, her eyelids - begging for her forgiveness. He would fall to his knees and plead for however long it took, he was forever at her mercy.

She placed a cold hand against his lips, and gently pushed him back.

“You hurt me.” Her glass eyes were full of so much hurt and pain. She had been conditioned since she was young to build a wall, to keep people at arms length. She was meant to live on the fringe, always the outsider looking in, and the moment she decides that she deserved more, when she decided to show Bruce how to circumvent her walls, he betrayed her and left her broken.

“I'm so sorry.” He gasped, fingers lose as she slipped from his grasp.

“You hurt me very much.”

She took a step back, idly plucking at a pearl button.

“So much, Bruce.”

The button came undone, exposing the thin skin between her breast.

“I didn't mean to hurt you.” He said, arms still hanging. “I needed to leave, I was a liability, I would have done so much more than hurt people if I stayed.”

She shook her head sadly, glass eyes never leaving him.

“Look at what you did to me, Bruce.” She undid the last of the buttons, and pulled the fabric away from her from.

Bruce gasped, hands shooting to smother the strangled scream working it's way up his throat. He skittered back to the safety of the QuinnJet’s wall. He looked upon Natasha’s bared front in horror.

From just under her breast to above her pelvis there was a large, angry slash in her fair skin. The wound gaped large and wide, like a gutted trout, the skin jagged and inflamed. Within the gaping cavity there was… nothing. Her ribs were cracked inwards and dry, rotten meat hanging in limp strips from the bones. Most of her organs were gone, no stomach, liver or kidneys, her lungs hung deflated, her diaphragm torn. Her heart hung limp in the center of the cavity, dark and shriveled, calcified and hard. Shining and crawling carrion beetles devoured what little flesh remained in the cavity, crawling through ribs, cartilage and open arteries.

He could feel the bile rise in his throat, hot and acidic, turning his insides to liquid. The soft yearning ball of want that had settled low in his stomach, when Nat was in his arm, all but disappeared, transforming into horror and the primal instinct to take flight.

The smell that lurked beneath Natasha’s familiar rosewater became crystal clear to Bruce, death. Sweet and pungent, her wound stank of rotting flesh. His mouth watered and he gagged as the scent stuck in his scent stuck in his throat.

"You were always a weak liability, Banner.”

General Thaddeus ‘Thunderbolt’ Ross appeared out of the gloom at Natasha's side, a thick cloud of acidic cigar smoke wafted in his wake.

The General seemed bigger than what Bruce remembered, looming menacingly over Natasha's shoulder, puffing on the cigar like a freight train. His huge hand reached out and griped Natasha's shoulders, thick meaty fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. Soft, pale skin bubbling up in red irritated welts under his grasp.

“You’re a disgusting coward,” he growled around his cigar. “A leech on the underbelly of better people, rotting them from the inside out.”

Ross tugged Natasha closer and pulled her dress further open, baring more of the grotesque empty wound. Natasha was a rag doll in his grasp, arms limp at her sides, eyes glassy and unseeing.

“Nat?” Bruce pleaded, voice weak.

“Look at me, Bruce. Look at what you've done.”

Bruce sobbed into his fingers, her voice was cold and robotic, inflectionless. This wasn't Natasha, not his Natasha. Not his snarky and sarcastic friend and teammate, not the calm and patient woman who helped to tame his rage, not the valiant fighter who easily held her own amongst gods and monsters. Was this because of him? He pressed himself into the wall, cool metal stung through the wool of his jacket, tearless hitching sobs bobbed in his throat.

It couldn't have been, Nat was strong, and out of everyone on this planet, in this galaxy, she would understand. She would've understood the need to get away, to find oneself, to strike a bargain with the monster under your own skin.

“Ohhh, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby-Boy. You should know better, son.” His Father said, squatting down next to him on the floor. He smelled as he always did, chemicals, liquor, and vomit. The haggard face was one that haunted Bruce every time he looked in the mirror. “This isn't the first person you’ve done this to, look.”

He didn't want to look to where his Father was pointing, to gaze over the shoulders of Natasha and Ross. He knew he should pull up his jacket and hide his head. If he can't see them, they can't see him.

But Bruce knew what would happen if he disobeyed his father. Brian Banner wasn't a man to be crossed.

They were all there, swimming out of the shadows. All of the people who had trusted and loved him, all the ones he had let down over the years. Tony and Pepper, Aunt Susan prim and proper, Jen, Aunt Elaine and Uncle Morris, Thor’s golden head towered in the back. A young faced Rick. Helen and her little boy Amadeus, who sometimes tagged along with his mother to New York and liked to follow Bruce like a duckling, tugging on his lab coat with a never ending stream of questions for Bruce.

Betty, dark eyes and full lips…

His Mother…

They all stood slack limbed and hazy eyed, crowded in the dark belly of the QuinnJet. Blouses and shirts were slashed open, stained dark and dirty, their bellies gutted like trout. Viscera, dark and congealed jelly, clung in chucks to the ruined skin, dropping to the floor in a vile farce of a rain shower.

Bruce couldn't control himself, he pitched forward a vomited, acidic sick peeling the flesh from his esophagus. He coughed, spitting foaming bile, and wiped his face, tears and cold sweat running down his cheeks.

Brian Banner scoffed, and stood away from his son. The hard soles of his cardboard-leather shoes rang strong and clear in the quite tomb of a space. He took his place along side Natasha and Ross.

“You are a monster, son,” Brian Banner ran a finger along Natasha's jaw, he inspected her like a jeweler appraises riches, his eye critical a lock of red curled between his fingers, “you always were. Even before you started changing into that giant green abomination.”

“No,” Bruce rasped, hiding his eyes in his knees, hand painfully tugging at his hair and ears.

"Yes," his Father said matter of factly, “you have the distinct habit of destroying those you love.”

He tisked, clucking his tongue like an old maid.

“You did it to your Mother, bless her soul, you did it to little Miss Betty, everyone you meet you gut and devour their lives like a parasite.” He heaved a heavy sigh and placed a large hand over his heart “It’s my fault really, I should have drowned you the moment your Mother pushed you from her belly. But, she had already grown so found of you. She read to you and talked to you, the parasite growing in her belly, that when you were finally born she was blinded by her misdirected love. I saw what you were from the start, but she was so happy, I thought it wouldn't hurt to let her play mother for a while. Boy, I was wrong.”

“We're all to blame,” said Ross, blowing a jet of blue smoke from his nose, “we all had a chance to tamp him out, but in the end he is a slippery eel.”

"No no no no no.” Bruce cried desperately, lunging forward grasping the hem of Natasha's skirt. “I never meant for this to happen, any of this. I left so it wouldn't happen.”

She took a step forward, forcing her grotesque wound closer. Bruce shuffled back, he couldn't tell if Ross and Brian were forcing her upon him, or she was in charge of her own movements.

"I never wanted to hurt you, or anybody else,” he didn’t know how else he could explain that this was why he ran?

He knew deep down he was rotten, that his rot could spread and effect others. That's why he stayed away, never got close, and lived his life safely but lonely on the fringe. He knew, he knew he would corrupt the people he loved.

There was so many shouldn't haves. He shouldn't have let the lovely red spy tempt him from exile, he shouldn't have stayed amongst people, he shouldn't have become comfortable, he shouldn't have thought that maybe he could be a hero, that he could love and be loved without repercussions.

Natasha reached down with her pale claw hand and gill-hooked him under the jaw. Her nails dug painfully into the soft flesh, forcing him to wobbling colt feet. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks, large and fat, so much like the tears he cried as a child.

Her face is still and icy, cool and composed and unearthly. Bruce feels that perhaps he is looking into the face of the real Black Widow for the first time. She draws him close, her cold nose nuzzling his, her tongue darting out to taste the tears on his cheek. He could feel the missing hollow of her torso against his and try as he might to squirm away, she held his fast.

"I adored you Bruce…” and just like that time long ago, standing upon the edge of nothing, she kissed him.

“But you ripped that from me.”

And just like before, she pushed him into nothingness.

~*~

Bruce is slow to wake, the border of dream and reality blurred. He was on the QuinnJet, now filled with the comforting hum of engines, and the drone of soft voices. He felt sick, a bit queasy in the back of his throat and a heavy cotton in his head. But he wasn't falling, Ross and his Father were absent, and everyone looked whole.

He fumbled for a the water bottle stashed under his seat, and chugged. The cool water helped to rinse the hot sick climbing up from his gut and cleared his head. He could see everyone in the cabin was safe and sound; Happy thumbing through a ‘Southern Living’, Pepper busy tapping away at the glass of her data pad trusty phone tucked securely between ear and shoulder, and Natasha seated in the cockpit navigating their bird to its destination.

A sense of wrongness hit him then, as he eyed the empty co-pilots seat. Barton should have been there, next to Nat, asking her if she liked movies about gladiators and getting punched in the arm for his effort. Steve should have been seated at the small table introducing Thor to some obscure Forties Era card game, and Thor sitting bookended to Steve, quickly grasping the game. Tony should have been pacing the length of the cabin, bouncing ideas off Bruce, both men consumed by science as JARVIS recorded their thoughts.

Instead of cramped and busy, and completely welcoming, the cabin was empty and cold. Bruce wished with all his might that he could go back a few short months and stop his friends and himself from going down the path that lead to where he is now

Bruce sighed and leaned back in his seat, finger idly playing with the straps that kept him seated. If he had learned anything in this life that he had been living, he knew this wouldn’t end smoothly. He knew deep in his bones that he was coming up to a door. Would the door lead to the fanciful land of Narnia, bright and beautiful. Talking Beavers sitting down to tiny tea sets, Fuan’s and Nymphs dancing to the rhythm of otherworldly music. Or perhaps it was the bowls of Moria, the stench of deep and dank rotting throughout the once dazzling city, wandering through the dark until coming face to face with Durin’s Bane, the ferocious Balrog consuming him in fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got my taxes all nice and filed and good to go, so celebratory chapter post for everyone!!!!!!
> 
> Ireallyhopethismakesuseven is a saint! All the love!
> 
> Comments, critiques, and questions are most welcome,


	4. Natasha Ascends to The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's day goes from bad to worse... and does not look to be letting up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a huge pain in the ass, i rewrote and tweaked it farrr too much, and as such it is pure Colombian uncut non beta'ed. If there are any issues anyone spots from spelling and grammatical errors to shit that doesn't sound quite right please let me know, i would greatly appreciate it.
> 
> Any-who, hope every one enjoys!
> 
> WARNING - a corpse is described in some detail, I personally don't think it is excessive, but the warning is there if you don't care for that sort of thing.

For the longest time the only thing she is aware of, besides the pressing dark, is the sticky wet thrumming in her shoulder. Like a steady cruel wave, the dull red waxed and waned with the slow steady beat of her heart. Her world consisted of the insistent pain for what seemed like ages, a parasitic vine of hurt that spread from the nucleus to the tips of her fingers and up to crown her skull, pinching at the delicate nerves.

Her stomach lurched and rolled, bile burning at the back of her throat. She tried to dig her palms into the aching pressure point of her skull, but her limbs refused to respond. Warm soft iron was banded about her that restricted her movements to little more than slight wiggles. She pressed her aching head against the mass she was held against.

Soft and sturdy and warm, inexplicably she felt safe cradled as firmly as she was. The smells of old leather, pine and strong ozone lulled her back into the swimming dark of unconsciousness.

~*~

The next time she comes to she manages to crack through the layers of crust coating her lashes and finds everything is red.

This was it, wasn’t it?

Her bloody past had finally caught up with her and dragged her kicking and screaming into the darkest pit of Hell. She was ready. This is what she deserved, what she knew would happen eventually. She had prepared herself for an eternity of pain and suffering for her past transgressions. Nothing in Heaven or on Earth could erase that much red.

Although, now that she thought of it, for the realm of endless fire and suffering it was rather quiet. No screams of the damned or hellish shrieking of three headed devil dogs. Just faint snuffling and quiet sobs. And why would someone be gently combing their fingers through her hair?

Natasha groaned, and carefully rolls to her side. A wave of nausea flips her stomach and she breathes through her nose deeply, bracing her weight on her elbows. The gentle hands steadied her, bracing her arm and shoulder.

"Easy there," Pepper voice was thick and raw. “Take your time, head down, deep even breaths.”

Natasha heeds her advice, slowly sucking in the thick air.

“What happened?” She asked when the nausea subsided a bit.

“I’m not sure.” Pepper helped Natasha to sit back.

With the nausea under control, and the pain radiating out of her shoulder receding to a dull background ache, Natasha was finally able to take stock of her surroundings.

It wasn’t quite Hell, but it was close

Dust and debris had settled thickly about them, it clogging eyes and nose, burning Natasha’s throat and itching her skin. Most of the ceiling in the testing room had caved in; thick slabs of concrete had fallen onto each other, sparking wires growing like weeds. The observation room was relatively intact; though the door had been blocked the only illumination was the faint red emergency light.

She could make out figures huddling in the debris. One curled into a small sobbing ball, tucked into the space under a dented desk, she couldn't tell if it was Scott or the other Doctor. Happy’s wide shoulders paced carefully where the door had once been, probing stones and slabs of concrete for a probable exit.

“It all happened so fast, the tremors and the collapse. If it wasn't for Hulk, you wouldn't – you would have...” she stumbled over words, hands fluttering to her throat.

She didn't need to finish, Natasha got the idea.

"How long have we been down here?" She asked, gingerly probing the wound on her shoulder. It was tender, a large ugly bruise probably already turning a lovely shade of shade of sick yellow. The blood was old and crusted over with dust. It would be a pain in the ass for quite a while until she could get it looked at.

“I don't know, my watch has stopped working and I've lost my phone.” She held out the busted and cracked device for Natasha to see. “It's been long enough for the commotion to die down.”

A few hours perhaps, Natasha thought to herself.

“How is everyone?”

“We lost the Doctor in the cave in, but everyone else is breathing.” Pepper gestured around the room.

It was then that Natasha finally noticed Hulk.

What she at first took for a pile of concrete hidden in the shadows, turned out to be her giant green teammate. He sat still on his haunches, drifts of dust and rubble powdered his hair and skin. Hulk looked almost serene, eyes closed and breathing even. She probably wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't canted his head in the direction of their low voices.

“He burst through the wall, you know.” Pepper whispered, noticing who she had spotted. “I think he sensed the danger before anyone else.”

Natasha hummed in agreement.

He most likely did. Hulk's senses were almost supernatural in their keenness, it almost bordered on precognition. Out of all five, his hearing and smell were the most fine tuned, even when he wasn't giant and green, some of that keenness was gifted to Bruce. Far too many times Bruce had turned down the volume of Tony’s music with hands muffling his ears, or finding sanctuary in a good pair of noise canceling headphones. His nose was also a thing of wonder, always first to appear when Thor pulled perfectly formed Krumkakers fresh from the iron.

But with Hulk, these senses were ramped up to eleven. He would come to a teammate’s aide after the quietest cry of pain. He could sniff out explosives and chemical weapons like a truffle pig.

“He burst in here and scooped you up tight.” Pepper continued “He held you for the longest time, until I could convince him to let me take a look at you, he hasn't moved from that spot since.”

“Maybe now that you’re not dead, we can finally get out of here?” Happy grumbled, pausing mid step.

Hulk opened one beady dark eye, barely a sliver, but the annoyance was clear enough.

Natasha climbed to her feet, head swimming. She leaned heavily on the upturned table, willing the tides in her head away.

“What's the word, Big Guy?” She asked.

He blinked down at her, slowly turning his heavy head. He furrowed his brows as he studied her, green skin bunching in deep hills and valleys across his forehead. His expression was hard to read, even for her, but it wasn't hostile, which Natasha took as a good sign.

“We're deep.” He rumbled at last, his voice vibrating pleasantly through her bones.

She hummed in agreement and looked to the ceiling. Her shoulder throbbed dully as the injured muscles and tendons stretched. She rubbed at the bloody knot, and rolled her neck, putting the wound out of mind for the time being.

Hulk whined low, right at the edge of the human range.

“I'm fine,” she brushed him off, still enraptured by the cracked and caving ceiling above. She wondered if the floors above faired better then where she stood. “Do you think you'd be able to dig us out, without causing a cave in?”

He huffed, sending dust to dance in the red glow of the emergency lights. He carefully crouched, moving gingerly, and tested parts of the ceiling.

“Maybe,” He growled, scrubbing a large hand along his scraggy jaw.

He stared down at her expectantly, she got the message.

Natasha grabbed Happy by the arm and hauled him to the cubby hole with the cowering Dr. Scott.

“Come on, Pep, in here.” She said as jauntily as she could, ushering Pepper in after Happy and crouching down herself. They were sardine close in the cubby, elbows and knees knocking jaws and jabbing sides, it was uncomfortable to say the least but it was safest place.

“What the Hell, Romanoff!” Happy said a touch frantic. She could hear his rapid wheezing in her ear as he tried to wriggle out of the cubby, but Natasha hauled him back.

It was a good thing she did, at that moment Hulk had found his point of entry, reeled his massive fist back and struck. Concrete, tile and insulation went flying, pinging off their cover like hail. They pressed their mouths and noses into clothes and jackets, as Hulk started excavating the now manageable bits of concrete.

He was a machine. Steadily breaking and removing rubble, with out pause. Even with Hulk's tireless effort, it was slow going a wrong move, the wrong stone moved, could have the entire building falling on their heads.

Hulk dug and dug, moving rocks and wire, he broke through piping, small trickles of water spilled down his growing tunnel. Natasha and her charges stayed cramped in the cubby hole, watching as Hulk's shoulders, chest, and then his feet disappeared up into the dark unknown. They sat cramped for the longest time, Natasha’s back and shoulder long gone stiff. Pepper had fallen into a fitfully doze, face pressed into her side and Scott had ceased his sobbing.

Happy had just started to wiggle and grumble in earnest, when a triumphant growl echoed through Hulk’s tunnel. A quiet hush fell over the group as they watched the tunnel hopefully. After a moment or two, heavy with anticipation, Hulk’s scruffy and sweaty head popped from the hole face spilt into a satisfied smirk.

He rumbled low in his chest and beckoned with scuffed knuckles, “Up and out.”

Happy was the first to crawl from the cubby hole, skittering on hands and knees. Relief seemed to wash over him as he looked up at Hulk.

“You've made it outside!” He rested back on his calves, practically vibrating with excitement.

Hulk’s satisfied smirk, dimmed slowly.

“No, but it's up and not as messy.”

That was enough for Happy. He launched himself to his feet, shouldering past Hulk and into the tunnel.

“Shake-a-leg people! Let's get out of here and get some fresh air!” His voice bounced off the uneven surfaces of the tunnel.

“Were really going to trust that – thing?” Scott was reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the cubby hole, peeking out his eyes seeming far too large for his thin face.

Hulk growled, his lip curling halfheartedly, and Scott slunk further back like a scared rabbit.

Natasha shrugged. “Stay then.”

They followed Happy one by one, reluctant Scott, Pepper and finally Natasha. Hulk waited patiently by the entrance as everyone scrambled up and in, playing the patient Door Man. The tunnel was large enough that they were able to work their way up the gentle slope standing with backs bent. It was a slow process, the footings lose and debris poked dangerously from underfoot. It was uneven, twisting and writhing like a snake, at one point – two floors up from what Natasha could guess – they broke out onto a stretch of hallway.

The white tiles seemed to glow in the slight gloom, the hall deserted and lonely looking like it had been left to time for years instead of hours. Evidence of hasty retreats were plenty; files with their paper innards spilling littered the floors, abandoned swivel chairs stood silent sentinel, personal effects and desktop nicknacks lay broken and abandoned.

Natasha was the first to brave the hall with gun drawn. She held her breath as she popped over the lip of the mole hole, the barrel of the glock pointing down one direction and then the other. She looked and she listened for anything besides the pressing gloom and the breathing of her companions.

The coast was as clear as she could tell.

“Come on.” She reached down into the hole and hauled Happy to his feet.

There was something nagging at the back of her head, like spiders silk across bare skin, it crept up her neck and sent her nerves on edge. Natasha licked her dry lips and eyed the dark end of the hall, the gloom eating what little light managed to filter from the small red emergency light glowing valiantly from above the stairwell.

Without a second thought she allowed her feet to lead her into the pressing dark. Slowly she crept forward, glock at the ready. The ceiling had ruptured, spilling dripping pipes, ductwork, and dead wiring that crisscrossed her path forcing her to duck and weave through the obstacles. It was a jungle and Natasha was the explorer, and she felt she was to cross paths with the Tiger with fire eyes.

Something on the wall caught her eye, a wavering of shadow that didn't quite run smooth with the rest of the painted cinder blocks. Four long gouges rent the concrete, even and parallel to each other. Stepping close Natasha spread her fingers as wide as she could, until the skin turned pale and thin over the tendons and her wrist started to ache, and tried to place her fingers in the gouges. They didn't fit.

“’Tasha?”

If she wasn't so well trained, she would have jumped out of her skin, but as it was she merely jerked and turned. How Hulk had managed to sneak up on her she would never know.

He stood, hunched on the other side of the wall of crisscrossing wire and ducts, brows curled and pleading.

“This way’s no good.” He grumbled, looking down at his shuffling feet.

"Yeah," The dust scratched at her throat. “Do you know what did this?”

Natasha turned her hand still splayed against the wall. Hulk ducked the wires and pipes and came to hunch next to her. His looming presence at her back was familiar and comforting, his sheer power on her side, so different than only a few years ago.

His huge green finger gently stroked the knives edge of the gouge.

“No.”

But there was something in his deep voice that caused Natasha to wonder.

Hulk bobbed his chin and ushered her back the other way.

She let him lead her, her mind racing and dancing. What could have made those marks? Could it have any correlation with their current status? Was it just something left over from some experiment? She had no clue. She didn’t like that she had no clue.

They continue up the staircase, round and round and round, up and up and up. They ascended step by step up floor after floor. Natasha would never take an elevator for granted again. Just as they were mounting the landing to the blessed first floor, they encountered their first body.

Calling the figure laying sprawled on the floor a body was quite generous. The poor thing was mangled and disfigured lying in a puddle of its own congealed blood. The smell alone should have clued them in to the surprise that lay waiting, but the dust and fatigued muddied brain waves. Happy had happened upon it first, tripping over a sprawled leg and almost going down to his knees.

“Jesus Christ!” He skittered around the body, colliding hard with the wall.

The red emergency light glowed dimly off the corpse’s skin, bloat already taking effect, which was wrong given the timeframe Natasha was assuming. Pushing past a gagging Scott she peered closer. At the very least it would be in the beginning stages of rigor mortis, not full out bloat and subsequently decomposition. The body was grotesque in its injuries bones, crushed and broken, poked through flesh. The skull had been cracked and his gray matter and fluid leaked and soaked his bloody ashen blonde hair. One eye, fogged and milky with death stared up to eternity, the other eye had ruptured in his skull the skin black and bruised around the ruined socket. The worst, the absolute worst, was the mauling his lower torso had taken. This wasn't injury due to disaster; this was caused by something alive, something with teeth. The left leg was severed completely, the cut ragged and chewed, there were deep gashes gored from the groin to mid torso, the flesh shredded with vital organs missing. The skin closest to the tears was irritated and littered with yellowed blisters that still weeped a thick viscus fluid. She was tempted to nudge the corpse with the toe of her boot, see how it reacted, stiff or mushy and pliable, but the yellowed pustules made her think better. There was a faint … sweatiness to him, the skin damp and almost translucent, bone and arteries visible if her eyes weren't playing ticks on her.

“The fuck happened t-“ Scott gagged on his words, pitching over the railing and retching.

Hulk whined from the back of the group. His eyes were wide and worried under his heavy brows, his large green fingers tangling together in giant green knots.

“Let's – let’s keep going,” Pepper’s voice tremors only slightly from her spot pressed to Hulk’s side. “There's the security booth that should still have power.”

A goal was good, Natasha could work with that.

“That's not too far then?” She looked too Happy for confirmation.

He nodded eyes still pinned to the corpse. “What are we going to use to protect ourselves?”

Natasha cocked her head and wiggles her glock in the air. “And him.” She jerks her head towards Hulk, who bares his teeth in agreement.

“Well and good for you but what about us?”

Natasha strode past Happy and slammed her elbow into the glass case beside his head, withdrawing an “in case of emergency” ax.

“Conan the Barbarian or Neo?” She asked holding out his options.

Happy lingered for a moment, looking between the ax, the glock, and her. Finally he snatched up the ax, “You're a better shot anyway.” He grumbled, testing the heft of the ax.

Careful and slowly they exit the stairwell, Hulk first, nose high in the air sniffing and carefully tilting his head this way and that, relying on his better senses. Natasha and the others fell in line behind him like goslings; tip toeing their way through the darkened halls of the ground floor.

There was something in the air; Natasha felt it run its icy fingers up and down her spine as they made their way to the security room.

It was the familiar hidden eyes, watching and waiting. The three headed Dog or the Ferryman coming to drag them back down to the bowls of Hell. Natasha’s gut twisted and tensed, she wasn’t unfamiliar with this feeling; she was the hare who felt the predator creeping in the shadows, inching closer and closer. She swallowed the desert that had appeared on her tongue and affixed a carefully crafted mask of focus and calm, her iron will tamping down that instinctual need to run. None of the others seemed to pick up on whatever was watching them, and she wanted to keep it that way until she was sure of what was happening or who was watching. Natasha thumbed the safety on her weapon, her gun was reliable but her true ace in the hole was Hulk.

Whatever it was dogging their steps he was aware of it. Hulk had lowered his huge head, tucked tight between huge trapeziuses, ready to charge. He slunk down, knuckling through the dust, head weaving back and forth. His nose flared as he sucked in great lungful’s of dusty air, tasting the staleness for any anomaly. Natasha was grateful that the Hulk didn’t seem too keen on giving her the cold shoulder as Bruce had been. She had the niggling feeling that she would need his indestructible strength sooner rather than later.

And honestly, she wasn’t below stacking the odds a bit in her favor.

Natasha had been in many situations that ended up in destruction, sometimes she was even the cause, but this place was unlike anything she had ever encountered. She came into this building that bubbled with activity, that was bright and sunny, with some of the most intelligent minds working together to make a better future, only to dig her way out into a waste land. Ruin and waste, dark halls splattered with dark muck. Pristine furniture, broken and strewn, the transformation was hard to wrap her head around. The walls stood sturdy but pock marked with dents and score marks. It wasn’t a struggled that had happened in this building, it was a massacre. The smell of blood and death was thick, the scents kicked up as the group carefully entered the lobby.

Through the gloom the figures appeared, lying prone on the ground where they fell. Just like the poor fellow in the stairwell, these bodies were unnaturally beyond rigor and far into bloat, sickened yellow boils had erupted over their skin originating around vile putrid slashes.

Hulk paused in the center of the room, head raised and sniffing the air.

“What is it?” whispered Scott, hovering close to Natasha’s elbow. His voice was muffled, collar pulled up over his nose gagging on every breath.

Natasha waved him off and flicked the safety off with a soft click.

She felt them. The eyes where everywhere, she could feel them prickle along her skin.

“There’s a phone at the gate station,” Happy ringed the neck of the ax nervously, “if we wanted to go that route.”

Hulk growled low and backed away from the gloom, pushing the others back toward the exit.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Pepper murmured, Natasha saw that she had picked up a broken table leg and was holding it like a baseball bat.

There was a fleeting sense of guilt in Natasha’s gut, she armed herself and Happy, Hulk was capable of taking care of himself, but what of Pepper and Dr. Scott? They might not be as experienced as she but why wouldn’t they want something to protect themselves with, instead of solely relying on someone else.

“Scott,” She bends down, not taking her eyes from the gloom, and wrenches something long and heavy from the floor. “Take this.”

“Why?” His voice is wobbly and his grasp is loose and unsure as Natasha pushes the object into his chest. “What’s out there? Is it one of those enhanced mutants? Did they kill all these people? Are they coming for us?”

As he talked his voice slowly rose in pitch, growing from a frantic whisper to a hysteric squeal.

Hulk reached back and clasped a giant hand over Scott’s mouth and shoulders, effectively silencing his tirade.

“Quiet” Hulk rumbled low, far off thunder in his voice. “Look.”

There was movement in the deepest shadows. Slow and languid, the shadows swirled and arched menacingly, the dragon stirring and arching into the waking world.

Natasha carefully sighted down the barrel, knuckles white on the grip.

Rubble skittered and fell.

“Rat?” Whispered Happy.

“Probably.” Natasha muttered.

Eyes, like silver fire blinked to life, soulless and wide.

“Let’s go with the gatehouse plan.”

A low whirring growl started low and deep, a buzzing vibrating that rattled Natasha’s inner ear. She knew now was the time to turn and run, to flee and find safety from whatever horror lived deep in the depths of hell. Except her knees were stone and her innards where jelly, a fine itching prickle ran along her neck, the silver fire eyes pinned her to the spot. She couldn’t look away as shadow peeled away from the rest and slunk from the gloom, oil on tar, low to the ground with a smooth rolling gait of a predator.

A tug on the collar of her jacket by larger than life fingers brought her out of her rabbit trance.

“Time to go.” She turned on her heel and took point making a bee line for the shattered door.

A guttural splintering of sound came from behind them and she quickened pace.

Soon Natasha burst through the door and took flight through the small garden, leaping over small decorative shrubs and scattering mulch and dirt and gunning for the drive and the small dark building that was the a small smudge in the distance. She could feel adrenaline pumping into her limbs, her heart thudding forcefully against her rib cage desperately screaming for her to move, move, MOVE!

Claws thundered at her heels, her heart wanted to leap from her throat but she forced it back into her chest. She hadn’t panicked at New York or in D.C. or when the small city in Sokovia launched into the sky and she wouldn’t panic here. She wouldn’t allow the creeping ancient anxiety cloud her judgment.

Natasha threw a quick glance over her shoulder, sending wild red hair whipping about her face. The others were keeping pace as well as they could, Happy red faced and puffing and Pepper racing remarkably well in sky high heels. Hulk loped at their heels swatting away at the blitzing tar black forms rushing from behind.

She didn’t have a destination in mind, just away. She pumped her arms and let her feet fly. From the left she spotted a beast moving fast from the flank, head low to the ground black mouth gaping and silver fire eyes wide as moons. Natasha, not allowing herself to think much on the fact that monsters from hell where nipping at their heels, aimed her gun and shot the thing square between the eyes.

Its screech was otherworldly, metal on metal, bone on bone, the scream of a hound from hell. The beast stumbled, skidding on its shoulder spraying dirt and gravel, before regaining its feet to continue its pursuit. It made it two long strides before Hulk’s fist came out of nowhere and nocked the thing back and to the ground, rolling head over heels tripping up the its brothers.

The bullet barely slowed it.

Hulk’s fist did little more.

This was a problem.

Natasha’s breathes were just starting to sting in her chest, a slight numbing ache developing in her legs, the others where gasping the unpracticed gaits becoming more uneven. She couldn’t make them run forever, they would slow and the beasts would be on them. Where to go? Where could they take cover and regroup. Her eyes darted about taking in the moonlit drive searching desperately for any sort of protective cover, when Hulk roared painfully and the ground rumbled as he crashed heavily to the ground. The tremor threw Natasha to the ground. She managed to tuck herself into a roll, hitting her injured shoulder hard and dropping her glock.

Hulk was being surrounded, more and more black tar beast snapping and foaming. They chittered and gurgled, thick paws dug at the earth. They baited him, one lunging low another hitting high. He swung his arms, smashing his fist into the ground, sending waves of dirt into the air. He grabbed at the beasts swinging them into their brothers, crushing them under foot, but they dodged him serpent fast.

One beast sprang from the pack, leaping high in the air with the silver moon sparking of its beetle black hide, and landed on Hulk’s back knocking him to a knee. The creature clung to his shoulder with long claws and huge jutting fangs. Hulk roared and whirled about, arms flying and grabbing at the creature gnawing on his back.

His large dark eyes met hers across the dark; wild and full of fear.

“Move!” the bellow came from the deepest part of him and he threw himself into the fray with vigor.

Natasha scrabbled around in the dark for her weapon. Heart thumping staccato, leaden fingers fumbling in the dark. The cold clear mask of the Widow was slipping; she could feel it succumbing to fear. Never had the mask slipped when fit in place before, but now with the tar beasts closing in, her vulnerable companions, and Hulk with his large green hands full, it felt like plaster crumbling to the old fear that lived deep within her hind brain.

The creatures clicked and chittered, long fangs and dark seal skin bodies shining like an oil spill. They knew their prey was vulnerable, they knew they could take their time and pleasure. Their chattering laughter raked up Natasha’s spine like devil claws as they circled tighter and tighter, forcing Natasha’s and the others backs close.

A creature lunged viper fast, dark mouth wide, teeth shining. Happy swung his ax with a grunt, catching the beast in the jaw. It screamed high reeling back and shaking its head sending dark drool into the air, but no blood.

The creature melted back into the dark shadow of its brothers.

They pressed closer and closer, forcing Natasha to step back until her back was flush against Peppers. It wasn’t looking too good for them, Natasha thought, definitely not ideal. Certainly not, but if this was it Natasha was going to go out with her boots on, and perhaps give the others a chance. If only she could find her glock, she didn’t think garrote wire or a single Widow Bite would be of any use if an ax to the face barely fazed them.

And then like a miracle, her foot rolls on the sturdy grip of the glock, almost snapping her ankle and sending her tumbling to certain death. Quickly she scoops it up and takes aim.

BLAM!

She squeezes off a shot, aiming between the eyes.

BLAM!

BLAM!

She shoots again, aiming true as always.

The beasts shirked back, cowering at the violent noise, but none falling dead.

“What are we going to do!” cried Pepper, from behind Natasha. She can feel her swinging the table leg in a desperate attempt to fend of the beast.

“Yeah, Miss Special Agent what’s your plan!” growled Happy.

Natasha ignored the barb and focused on the situation at hand.

“You do have a plan right?” Scott’s voice trembled, “I thought you people dealt with this shit all the time?”

“Plans are usually made on the fly.” She muttered.

“Wha..!?”

Natasha shook her head, focusing on the task at hand.

“This is what’s going to happen.” Her voice came out steady and confident, it needed to be. “I’m going to break their line, and when you see the opening, you run. You run and you run, ‘till you feel like you can’t run anymore, and you keep going. Got it?”

Pepper grabbed at the tail of her jacket. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said, when you see the opening, you run.” Natasha ground out sliding the sole Widow’s Bite from the small compartment hidden in her watch.

“Bu..”

“Get ready,” The Bite rested in her fingers, the familiar smooth surface a cold comfort. She dug a nail into the small groove along the face, popping the little hatch, and with a minute twist of her fingers, slim wires were popped and rearranged and the hatch closed.

“Get set,” In a practiced motion she tossed the hotwired Bite at the feet of the Beast.

They jerked back in surprise, looking at the small strange object before them.  
Natasha aimed her glock carefully and shot the Bite.

Immediately the small device erupted into a glowing blue arc of electricity. Zapping fingers searching and grabbing looking to complete the circuit. The beasts let loose a cacophony of horrible howls of pain, bucking and dancing as electricity coursed through their bones.

“GO!” Natasha bellowed from deep within her chest as a break in the dark seal skinned beast appeared, she charged forward trusting the others to be close behind. She darted through the hole dodging teeth and claws and bolted for anywhere but where they were.

She had made five desperate strides, before a terrified scream of pain and shock had her skidding to a halt.

Scott was sprawled on the ground, a Beast pinning him by the shoulders. He struggled against the ground, pulling at the grass and kicking his feet, but the weight of the beast kept him still. It had reared its head and was doing something with its jaw, shifting it back and forth, popping it loose.

Natasha didn’t know what to do, the glock sat in her palm, damn near useless with these things. She couldn’t fail this; she couldn’t have another red mark in her ledger. She was responsible for these three; they were civilians in her care and she hadn’t lost anyone she was responsible for since becoming an Avenger. She had finally sailed through the fog of lies and uncertainty that had been her past. Things were clear as an Avenger, no ulterior motives, just save the day and make the world a safer place.

This wasn’t safer.

Before Natasha could wrap her head around what she could do to prevent the death of Dr. Scott, Hulk’s huge shadow appeared. In the moonlight he was dirty, oil spill ichor splatted across his shoulder and down his arm. He reeled back, a large decorative rock clutched tight in his fist and like a wrecking ball with the force of a landslide, Hulk smashed the rock alongside the creatures face, sending the beast rolling into the dark.

Hulk threw back his head and roared, beating a fist to the center of his chest, baring his teeth to the growling beasts. In a smooth motion he scoops Scott into the crook of his arm, tucking the man close to his chest. He motioned with his free hand urging them to hurry.

That works for Natasha.

She ran and vaulted up his back, securing his sides between her knees and tangled her fingers in his thick hair. With his arms full, Pepper and Happy holding on for dear life, Hulk took off like a bullet. Feet easily eating up the grass and gravel, the tar black beast dogged his heels for only a few moments before they fell behind and Hulk burst into the tree line. Craning her neck, Natasha watched as the slowly the beast slowed and disappeared as long as she could before Hulk’s gaining speed forced her to hunch down and hide behind his massive shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven, she is the moon of my life and holy lord i wouldn't be able to write anything without her constant encouragement.
> 
> And thank you Drrjsb for all the lovely comments, i love each and every one and they are a great motivator! <3


	5. Ch. 5: Hulk’s Midnight Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hulk runs for safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven is away on an amazing vacation, and she is having far too much fun for me to ask her to beta anything right now. so its self edited and we are getting what we get.

His great heart thumped in his chest, straining against the cage of his ribs in a rapid drumming. His arms pumped and his legs churned taking him deeper and deeper into the dark underbrush. Moonlight streamed in thick mercury ribbons through the leafy canopy, the inky dark and silver light turned the underbrush into a mysterious hollow of grabbing clawed branches and snare roots, but his feet were sure and his legs were strong and any obstacles were no problem for him.

There was a small part of him, that green roaring feral part that felt running was weak. It was deafening in his ear, poison green swimming at the corner of his vision, demanding that he turn and face those who dared to attack him. The raging green wailed for the beast’s blood, it wanted to smash and rip, to crush bone to dust and tear limbs from bodies. It wanted revenge and retribution; it wanted to put those lesser beasts in their place and show them who was the strongest and who ruled.

 He almost did, he almost dropped the small bodies cradled in his arms and turned back to face the beasts.

“Don’t do it, so help me God you will keep running.” Banner’s voice was soft and dangerous in his head.  
Hulk knew that Banner wasn’t good at viewing the outside like he was. Banner could feel the emotions and taste the adrenaline, he knew vaguely who Hulk might be in the company of, general facts but no concrete visuals like Hulk could. Banner didn’t know exactly what had happened all he knew was that Hulk was angry and scared and when Hulk was scared he dipped into the flowing green rage, but Hulk knew that when Banner put his mind to it he was far more frightening than anything that might turn Hulk to the gamma. 

So instead he firmed his arms around the small bodies, and shrugged the slight form clinging to his back up higher and put on a bout of speed. He raced the moon that entire night. He cleared miles of terrain, over pinewoods and rocky mountain roads, farmland and skirted small towns full of screams and smoke.   

Natasha clung to his back, fingers braided into his hair and knees pressed into his sides, her slight weight, no heavier than a song bird, was a real and steady presence to Bruce’s cold mental one. Her face was buried safe in the crook between his shoulder and ear protecting her from the sting of the wind and the whip of vegetation. She was whispering into his ear, he couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it lovely and soft and urged him to continue on.

“How are they?” Bruce’s firm voice echoes deep within with concern.

Hulk grunts and lays out all that he knows.

The smell of fear still clung to their skin, but time and the cool air was washing it away. Natasha’s grip was still firm, Happy squirmed as he was wont to do, Pepper had an underlying scent – soft and warm- but wasn’t any cause for concern. All seemed alert and holding tight to his skin, except for the Scott. The slight man’s breath puffed quick and shallow against the thick flesh of his bicep. He was hotter than normal, even against Hulk’s Gamma heated skin, he burned with fever. Scott shuddered, his grip weak and he hung slack in Hulks grip.

“What happened to him?” Bruce sounded concerned. Hulk wasn’t exactly sure why, he was fairly certain Scott was in Ross’ pocket and deserved what had happened to him.

“I don’t care who Scott was working for. He could be the bastard offspring of Hitler and Satan; I still want to know what's happened to him.”

Hulk growled and relayed all that he remembered from the field; Natasha taking the lead and making a mad dash leading the others to somewhere safe, Scott lagging behind Happy and Pepper, a large Beast tackling Scott to the ground, Pepper’s frantic screaming part fright part rage, and the beast sinking fangs into Scotts shoulder.

“Not good. Defiantly not good, how bad is he bleeding?”

"Dunno." The tang of blood was in the air, tagging along as Hulk made his way, but he didn’t know how bad it was, and he wasn’t going to endanger the others for Ross’ lackey by stopping and checking him out to sate Bruce’s curiosity.

“Fine, just find some where quiet where he can be looked after.”

Hulk could do that. He would need to do that soon. He could feel the creeping fog of exhaustion creeping into his bones. The energy of the rage, the Gamma surge was running its course through his veins and he would crash soon, shrink back into tiny vulnerable pink Banner who would then pass out. He would be of no help to anybody.

So he rambled on, running and moving and not stopping. If he was to stop, he would be done.

“Keep going.” Banner’s voice sounded far, far away. “Don’t stop.”

He stumbled up a grassy embankment wet with dew gray morning light peeked curiously over the heart monitor lined tree tops. He turned onto a narrow two lane highway littered with the husks of wrecks. He navigated through the wreckage, the dark fog of unconsciousness dogged at his steps and more than once he knocked a knee into a fender. He felt a light tug to his hair and a pressing of a weight on his left. He followed that tug his thigh brushing cold gnarled metal. Natasha tugged again and he trusted her to lead him as he stumbled.  
The bodies in his arms squirmed and wiggled their way free to the ground, the two able bodied taking the limp body between them. Morning was creeping fast, the sun drying the sweat from his forehead. He could smell the drying dew, thick motor oil and blood, and a soft powdery something that was warm and comforting and brought visions of a woman with warm eyes and soft skin. He shook his head, stumbling, limbs heavy and shrinking, the rage and the Gamma were gone. His heavy eyelids fell shut as a his knees hit a hard surface and he fell forward skidding in dirt, grass and gravel, coming to a stop and finally passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever grateful to IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven, you are my rock girl!  
> thanks to DRRSJB who always sends wonderful comments  
> and to Feldman (handypolymath on tumblr) for making a beautiful amazing cover for this! ( that I need to figure out how to attach)


	6. Interlude 1: Thor: God of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor finds solace with two of his greatest friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO IN ONE DAY!!!
> 
> yes folks, its true, two for the price of one! bot fairly short but together ehhhhhhhhhh.
> 
> IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven is still on vacation, she's having good fun so this bad boy will be unbeta'ed.

The barn was warm and thick with scents of hay, leather and animal. It was a honey gold smell that settled over him like a well worn and loved blanket. There was peace in this building, with its high rafters, tall stalls, and cobbled floors. The thick supporting beams carved with delicate vines and leaves, flowers eternally bloomed and wheat was forever golden. Wooden serpents gnashed their teeth and threw their heads. Great herds raced across rolling hill, the artist skilled enough to depict sweat on the animals and dust at their heels.

Of all the places that Thor had roamed in Asgard, the stable was by far his favorite. He was a confidant child, excelling in all his physical lessons; sword play, hand-to-hand, mounted combat, and more. He was always a lad of action, sitting still for history, politics, mathematics lessons were torture for him as a boy. He was reprimanded many times, to his Fathers disappointment, and found solace in the quite calm of the stables with nothing but the warm hay and soft snuffling of the horses. 

Velveteen noses peeked over stall doors and ears twitched as he passed. Thor patted noses and scratched jaws, passing out chunks of radishes and carrots as he passed the horses. The shining brass name plates winked in the warm glow of the bright Asgardian sun streaming through the high windows; the brothers Glad and Gyllir, wild Skiedbrimir, Falhofnir who ran faster than the wind, gentle Lettfeti and mighty Sleipnir the biggest of all the horses in the stable. 

He passed through, heading for the pen at the back, and his pride and joys.

Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr danced about their pen, bleating loud and obnoxious, their stubby tails wiggled with joy. They were on him the moment his feet hit the fresh hay, nudging under his arms and gut affectionately with horns and foreheads. Thor knew the Billy Goats were an unorthodox choice of companions but that hardly worried him. Most warriors road fierce and heavy War Horses or Saber Cats, yet the Prince of Asgard would ride into battle on a sturdy chariot pulled by two nimble footed Billy Goats. Any sort of mocking was abruptly silenced either by a swift whack of Mjolnir or heavy twin horns to the gut. As fierce as Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr were in battle, they were sweet and incredibly intelligent out of it. Long silky golden wool, diamond hooves, and majestic ivory horns sprouted from their brow. Little beards, braided with little beads hung on their chins and thick silver collars decorated with twinning dragons clutching wheat and barley.  
Thor lowered himself gently to his knees and wrapped his arms around his beloved goats, knotting his fingers in their long silky wool, hiding his red rimmed eyes in their necks. 

Never in all his long life, had Thor expected such deception and callus disregard for life. Especially on the lives he had sworn to protect. Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjostr nuzzled into his side, chewing on the growing strands of hair and beard, they could sense his distress and comforted him as best as Billy Goats could.

Thor slumped back against the manger and uncorked the wineskin at his side. 

“Is it too much to ask to be told the truth?” He said scratching Tanngnjóstr between the horns.

The goat blinked at him blankly and nudged at his arm.

“Oh, yes, nearly forgot.”

He rummaged in his pocket before removing twin lumps of sparkling sugar, toasted brown with molasses. He took another swig of his drink as the goats happily chewed on their sugar. 

He was a fool, time and time again he has managed to be tricked walking blindly into the machinations of his brother or his father. He wasn't gullible, far from it. He wouldn't be a celebrated warrior if he was, but forgive him if he thought that perhaps he could trust his family, that their ruthless cunning and lies excluded him.

But sadly such treachery was the reality. 

He took another deep draw from the skin. The wine exploded with sweet fruity notes, not his normal beverage of choice, but it was close at hand and he wasn't going to complain. He let himself lay flat, nestling into the sweet warm hay, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr pressed tight to his sides, their steady breathing and gentle presence a balm to the storm inside.

He was fooled, and every man, woman and child in Asgard was apart of it. While he suffered his ignorance here in safety, the innocent people of Midgard, his teammates, his friends, the fatherly Selvig, devilishly sharp Darcy, and sweet Jane paid the price with their lives.

The worst thing, the absolute worst thing was his inability to do anything to save them. Midgard had be quarantined by decree of the Galactic Council; Spartax, Kree, Brood, Skrull, and Asgard had all agreed to the actions taken to “save” Midgard. Thor had tried to cross the expanse of space to Midgard on the legendary rainbow bridge, but Heimdall would have none of it.

“Your Lord Father has declared the path to Midgard closed, even to you.” Heimdall’s deep voice rumbled softly low and apologetic.

Thor had roared, and thrashed about the gatehouse his fury too much to bear. Finally he stumbled and rested his rear end upon the golden stairs upon which the bridge would appear.

Head hung low and chest heaving with dispersing rage he asked “Can you see them?”

Heimdall hummed.

“How are they?”

Heimdall pressed his lips into a thin line; his molten gold eyes swam with pity. “Your friends are strong and resourceful, as many Midgardians seem to be.”

“You’re clear as mud, as always Heimdall old friend.”

Heimdall’s armor jingled softly as he settled himself lightly next to the Prince of Asgard. He placed his large ornate sword across his knees, gloved fingers fondly tracing the details of the hilt.

“Perhaps it’s better if it’s kept at that.” The Gate Keeper gave what solace he could, “A wounded heart can take only so much strain.”

With that Thor had stormed from the gatehouse allowing his feet free rein, and it was little surprise to him that they would take him to the stable and to the only two creatures he could unburden his heart to.

He wept hot silent tears into the warm steady flanks of Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all thanks goes to IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven, if not for her help I wouldn't be writing anything.
> 
> Feldman (Handypolymath on tumblr) has made a beautiful cover for this guy that I need to figure out how to attach, but thank you sooo much!
> 
> and as always DRRJSB is the Patron Saint of encouraging wonderful comments and I'm forever grateful!
> 
> Go forth and read all their stuff! you wont regret it, I promise!


	7. Natasha and the Bramble Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha holds down the fort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I try to get these bad boys out on the 20th, but we had a birthday party for my dad that night, also I'm up to my arm pits shopping for a new car. 
> 
> As always thanks for reading and let me know what you think!

The sun was rising hot and humid over the ridge, the heavy coat of mist that hugged close to the road and scruffy curbside clumps of grass was slowly evaporating in the heat. The heavy full scent of hot green and heady turpentine was already lying on skin in a thin film. Despite the damp heat, the morning rose idyllic, hidden insects buzzed and droned lazily, birds chirped in unending chorus hopping from branch to branch, there wasn’t much of a breeze but what did manage to slough its way through wet air and thick pine needles was an instant relief to the balmy sun. The long stretch of back road stripped with white and yellow snaked its way through dense pines and red dusty rock, two lanes and not quite as abandoned as a mountain road might have been. Cars and flatbeds sat abandoned along the road; some were smashed in like tin cans, others were ripped to shreds, and still others sat untouched patiently waiting for their passenger’s to return.

Natasha took notice of the vehicles littering the roadway, tucking them to the back of her mind. They could be a great resource, but not at this exact moment. For now she was clinging to Hulk’s back bodily steering him as he stumbled through the maze of cars. He groaned and rumbled under his breath, feet dragging toes rolling over to scour his knuckles along the rough gravel. She could feel his thick hide quiver and twitch and shrink, the sickly green puffing out the veins in his neck was flushing back to its original color and size.

With a quick shimmy, she fell to the ground and went to help the others with Scott. He was limp and clammy; a sheen of sweat covered his forehead and upper lip. His breathing was short and shallow sucking in at stuttering intervals trough dry cracked limps, sallow skin was pulled taunt over sharp cheek bones. He floated in and out of consciousness and mumbling nonsense.

Natasha didn’t like the looks of the open. Most of the vehicles where smeared with the same flaking black ichor that blotched Hulk’s shoulder and mingled with the blood soaking Scott’s polo. The beasts were in the area, or at least they had been recently. She didn’t know their behaviors; she didn’t know if they were nocturnal or prowled during the day, were they able to blend into their surroundings? Where they watching them right at this moment?

Natasha didn’t know, but she didn’t want to take the chance by camping out in a baking hot car.

Hulk shuffled a pace or two more before his shins collided with a hollow “bong” along the guard rail and toppled head first skidding down the grassy bank. She heard the agitated rustle of brush as a quickly transforming Hulk skidded to a stop.

That would do for the time being.

“Get him down that bank and try to find some cover, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” asked Pepper, looking up from grasping Scott’s ankles.

Happy shot her a look; eye brow arched high reaching for that elusive hair line.

“One of these cars has got to have a usable first aid kit in it.” Natasha said with a shrug, leaving Happy and Pepper to shuffle Scott down the slope.

When Natasha got herself back to New York and hospitable society she was going to make it her mission to have every vehicle carry a rudimentary first aid kit. She couldn’t believe any self-respectable van driving, kid toting soccer mom not have at least Band-Aids and Neosporin in the glove box. They had everything else, Bluetooth and satellite radio, entertainment systems, fucking seat heaters to keep that ass toasty, but no gauze or hydrogen peroxide. She did find some packages of granola bars and a fresh case of water.

She would have to get creative.

Taking an afghan from the backseat of a smash nosed Buick, Natasha laid it in a clear spot and rummaged through the others. Taking the knife from her boot she cut the belts from a van, collected the water and granola bars, and found a tackle box and fishing line in another. A beater with a pot leaf air freshener hanging from the mirror had a hidden stack of beer and cheap shit vodka.

She smashed windows and peeked through open doors grabbing anything that could be useful. She was quite selective with which vehicle she chose to dig through, some of them had smears of pale red and oozing yellow. In a red hatchback she found a young woman slumped over the wheel. Long pale hair fell in a waterfall stained with blood, flies buzzed like a halo around the body. Carefully Natasha reached through the open window and moved the woman back.

She was dead.

No surprise there.

Like the body they stumbled across before, this one was unnaturally decayed. Thin translucent skin pulled taunt over fluid, the skin was so thin that Natasha could see the bones in her forearm, the skin taking a putrid sallow pallor. Natasha didn’t quite know what to make of this, she had seen her fair share of bodies, but this she was unfamiliar with. If she had to say so, she would say that the woman’s insides were liquefying.

Scrubbing her hands on the back side of her jeans, she studied the body. After time she makes out a quite gruesome wound, it was hard to make out from all the rest of the swelling, but along her arm and top of her breast was a thick congregation of pustules. Yellowed peaks rolled and crowed over a shoulder and down a clavicle to deform a breast hidden behind a stained and bloody top, the boils ran from their origin waxing down dead flesh, swelling and disfiguring. Natasha left the body unease curling in her gut. There was nothing she could do for the woman but leave her in peace and move on.

The slope was steeper than she had thought; it took some extreme finesse to lug the afghan full of finds without tripping over her own two feet, but she had made it to the prickly brush line with both ankles intact. At the bottom she had found Pepper and Happy seated in the long feathered grass, Bruce slumped in a snoring heap between them and Scott whimpering in Peppers lap.

He looked worse than he did moments before, sallower, sweat thick on his skin soaking through his shirt. His breath hitched in his throat popping his Adam's apple in a stuttering dance.

“Let's get them in the shade.” She said pushing her way through dense foliage finding a clear spot deep into the trees. The hollow was small and snug, thick tangled brambles protected the hollow on all sides, the ground is a soft pallet of thick pine needles.

Natasha kept her head low, scooting farther back and laying out the afghan for Scott.

After rinsing her hands with a splash of cheap vodka she pulled her knife from her boot and went to work carefully peeling and slicing the sticky fabric. Yellowed pus and thin trickles of blood seeped from a horrid wound to his shoulder, the beast looked to have nipped him, not fully catching him. There was a deep puncture just above his clavicle that leaked thin watery blood and a row of smaller needle like marks that ran down the meat of his shoulder to end in a nasty gouge.

She rolled her at the ghastly sight, small yellowed pustules were growing from the wounds, very much like the woman in the car and the people mailed back at the Stark Industries testing facility. Diligently she flushed the wound with the alcohol, Scott groaned and jerked eyes shooting open glassy with fever.

Pepper was there immediately, pinning Scott’s uninjured shoulder. She shushed him, voice soft and soothing stroking thin hair from his fevered brow. Scott settled back tilting his head into Pepper’s palm.

“Thanks.” A small grateful smile broke through her thin lipped concentration.

“No problem,” Pepper returned her faint smile. She turned back to Scott diligently watching for the slightest bit of discomfort. “Is he going to be alright?”

Natasha continued to drizzle Vodka on the wound using paper napkins, en lieu of gloves or a cloth, to carefully wipe away the mess. “I don’t know.” Natasha debated only a moment or two before she decided Pepper could handle what was percolating in her mind. “I’m not sure, this bubbling around the wound it was on the bodies back at the facility. I also found a body back there,” she nodded in the direction of the highway. “She was covered in them. I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know.”

Pepper’s pale brows drew together, “He’s going to need professional medical attention.”

Natasha hummed as she smeared antibacterial cream around the wounds with the tip of a napkin, before dressing the wound holding the gauze with thin strips of seat belt.

Happy popped up on his elbow from where he had plopped down on the bed of pine needles.

“Then let’s just grab one of those cars up there and get to a hospital. I don’t like the guy, but I don’t want him to die.”

“Neither do I,” she agreed “but I don’t know if moving him would be a good idea.”

“Then what do we do? Sit here with our thumbs up our asses doing nothing?”

Natasha dipped her shoulder and tossed Happy a bottle of water and a granola bar. “Only until Bruce wakes up or if Scott gets worse, sound good?”

He grumbled, damn near pouting, pulling the bottle and granola bar close to his chest and curling on his side. “At least I can take a damn nap.”  
  
Natasha couldn’t argue with that.

A quiet stole over their thicket for a moment. The golden morning air was still, song birds flitted about above their heads, curious black bead eyes studying the tired bodies below. Bruce’s steady breathing, in and out, in and out, a hypnotic metronome, and Natasha found her own breathing easing to match his, her body relaxing into the soft bed of leaves and pine needles, her eyes lids drooping inch by inch.

“What if one of those monster things finds us.” Pepper asked, her voice soft and breathy, on the verge of falling into slumber herself, one delicate hand placed securely on Scotts chest.

Natasha forced the drowsiness back, shaking off sleep and propping herself up.

“I got watch.” She said, voice low with no ounce of the exhaustion she felt in her bones.

Pepper hummed, finally drifting off into oblivion.

Natasha slid her glock from the holster, resting the weapon in her lap. The silver finish winked dully in the dappled light, innocent in its inactive stillness. She knew in her capable hands this thing was more than deadly, more than a weapon, it was an extension of herself.

She double checked the safety and popped the clip.

Eight bullets glinted in the magazine.

Eight.

She had her knife and garrote wire, but what good would those be if a beast were to show up. She shot a beast in the face at nearly point blank, and the thing hardly paused.

She leaned her head back and sighed.

It wouldn't come to that, and if it did, she’d get everyone to safety somehow.

She hoped.

~*~

“Natasha?”

The glock was in her hand and aimed before her eyes were even open.

Bruce starred down the barrel of the gun with a small, sheepish, sleepy eyed smile.

“This feels very familiar.” He murmured, scrubbing the gunk from the corner of his eye.

Natasha lowers the weapon with a tired sigh.

"Only a few bullets left anyway."

“Not much use then?” He asked pushing himself up.

"All depends on how you use them.”

A soft, tired laughs leaves him. He looks around, slight curiosity in the tilt of his head.  
“So, where are we?”

Natasha shrugs, head tilting back to rest against a tree trunk.

“Somewhere east of the Facility.”

He hums, not concerned enough for someone who has woken up in unfamiliar surroundings, but she supposed he was uniquely used to the phenomenon.

“What happened back there?”

Natasha ran a hand through her dirty hair, picking out pine needles and twigs.

What did happen?

She was an Avenger, weird shit happened on a daily basis. It was written into her contract, it was a fact of life. Alien Invasions over New York City, Rabid Robots turning an entire city into the set of Armageddon, Mad Scientist with genetically engineered dinosaurs, The Kraken, a fucking Dragon, the plague personified, seriously the list could go on and on. But this, this was different. Everything else they had some sort of inkling, some kind of heads up, some idea of what was coming. This was right out of left field, cold clocking her and the others into oblivion.

"What do you remember?” She finally asks, she’d rather see what he said before she dropped the crazy on him.

“I’m not quite sure,” he hesitated “I remember Dr Scott, I remember changing into the Hulk, things get a little blurry after that. The ceiling collapsed, the building was ruined, and there were big dog-shadow monster things that ate Scott?”

He at her concern puckering the space between his thick eyebrows.

“Please tell me that was just my subconscious having a field day?”

“Well, Scott wasn’t eaten.”

“Is he okay?”

She shrugged, “He’s got a nasty bite, it doesn’t look good, I got him on some pain killers and bandaged up as best I can.” She leaned over and pressed her hand to his forehead, it was slick with sweat and a bit swollen but the fever had abated somewhat. “His fever has gone down.”

Bruce scooted over to get a look at Scoot eyes squinting in the dim light and lack of glasses. He probed and inspected the dressing on Scott’s shoulder, the nucleus of the bandage was bright pink. He looked distressed as he carefully removed the dressing and cleaned the wound.

"You got us out of there. Saved all our asses.”

She nudged his side with the toe of her boot, a small weak smile came to her lips unbidden.

He nudges back without pausing in his work.

It dawned on Natasha that this was the first time they were alone in the longest time, well as alone as they could get. Happy and Pepper were still curled tight in the dirt, breaths deep and even.

Perhaps, if the blue moon was full and her stars were aligned, Bruce would break the ice and address their elephant. She knew intellectually, that it didn't matter who brought up the subject, just that someone did. If she really wanted to clear the air she would do it right here, force him to work through what was happening before Ultron, what happened between them during, and then the aftermath.

But there was a very young and inexperienced part of her that drowned out her good senses and demanded Bruce take the initiative. She knew it made zero sense and just convoluted things. But it was her that had done the chasing, it her who flirted and put on the moves, who pulled out the pickup lines and cheesy lines. It was she who had initiated everything, from friendly touches to a kiss on the edge of a chasm, for good reason. If the beginning was left up to Bruce at the time nothing would have happened, and she wouldn’t have tasted – contentment? Adoration? Attraction? Lust? Fondness? Something so powerful it smashed right through her well-built emotional Fort Knox and left her gasping and acting the fool.

Go figure it was the Hulk that did it.

So she sat there, dirty and tired, hair a rats nest on pine needles, watching Bruce and silently begging him to make their relationship clear. Acquaintances, friends, lovers, something in between, just as longs it wasn't this unknown.

But he didn't.

Instead he finished setting Scott’s dressing then settled back onto the bed of pine needles. His eyes drooped in the silence and thick heat, insects humming summer lullabies. His chest moved with his easy breaths, up and down, a soothing rhythm she yearned to rest her ear to. His face astonishingly young without his glasses, the frames lost under tons of rubble.

He looks to her then, arching his neck into quite an interesting line from his chin to his clavicle. The tendons strained against the fragile flesh of his neck in such a mesmerizing way that Natasha found it hard to look away. His eyes are dark and deep, shrewd with a scarred and wary kindness, lashes long and thick under heavy refined brows.

“What do we do from here?” His soft voice startles her out of her thoughts

Natasha lets her disappointment slip away. What did she expect?

“There’s a town not too far down the road, if we can get a car going it won’t take too long to get there. Get some food, get a phone, find out what the hell went down, then get the hell out of dodge.”

“Good.” Bruce furrows his brow and cocks his chin in her direction. “You want to take a break? I can sit up until morning.”

He looked like he was just barely holding off sleep by the skin of his teeth.

She gives him a small fond smile, no mask, all true. “Thanks Doc, but I”ll be fine for a few more hours.”

He falls asleep almost before the words have left her mouth, curling into himself on his side.

Natasha is alone again, just herself and the waning light.


	8. Dr. Banner, Paging Dr. Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a conversation with a doomed man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh good lord would you look at that! A new chapter!! It’s a miracle *cue the horse whinny and the white doves*  
> Since this is a work of fiction with tar based monster out killing people using characters from comic books and movies who can all do amazing things, we are all going to pretend that someone can talk after having gone through an impromptu emergency tracheotomy.

“Bruce.”

  
“Bruce!”

  
“BRUCE!”

  
Bruce’s eyes snapped open with a cold gasp.

  
Dark shadows hovered above staring down at him with wide, worried eyes and a squirrels nest of red hair.

  
“Nat, what?” he sat up knuckles digging the gunk from his eyes. Her hand found his wrist to his wrist and tugged him after her.

  
“It’s Scott.” She hissed in a low whisper.

  
Bruce had rolled to his knees immediately and crawled to where the prone shape of Scott lay.

  
“I need a light.” Bruce leaned over Scott, he was gasping, chest rising and jumping at irregular intervals. Bruce put a hand to his forehead and snatched it back immediately; his fever had returned with a vengeance, the skin giving like a balloon filled with scalding water.

  
A piercing light snapped on to the right of Bruce’s ear. Natasha appeared with a small flashlight, the light harshly illuminating the worry lines of her face. She looked sickly and worried, eyes nothing but flecks of gem stone stuck in sunken dark depths. Her teeth caught her lip and chewed at the soft skin, and he knew she was allowing him to see her worry.

  
He sucked in a breath and tore his gaze away from her terrible beauty and down to the business at hand.

  
“Dear Lord.” Bruce muttered finally seeing Scott for the first time in the stark light.

  
He was swollen, the wound a ground zero of pulsing oozing infection. The saturated gauze was a sticky impasto over the puncture wounds bleeding and dissolving in the sick. His face was a swollen mass, eyes forced closed, lips and cheeks puffed, breath wheezing through pin holes. Bruce leaned cautiously closer squinting without his glasses. Sweat poured from Scott, translucent yellow angry veins webbed across his cheeks and down his neck. There was an odd pattern on his skin, not a bruise or dirt but something else.

  
Bruce snatched the small flashlight from Natasha, fumbling with the small device for a moment before he could steady the beam and train it on Scott. Carefully he passed the light over his face the dark shadows under his skin stood still. Scott gasped, jaw hitching, the shadows jerked with his movement.

  
It was a horrendous sight, both Bruce and Hulk recoiling, deep knee jerk reaction telling him to retreat and leave Scott where he lay.

  
“He’s not breathing properly.” Bruce said diving immediately to work. “I can- I can- I can help his breathing, but we need to get him more help than i can provide here.”

  
Natasha nodded serious. “What do you need?”

  
Bruce squared his shoulders, carefully stacking each vertebra on top of each other, strong and sturdy.

  
“I need a sharp knife and a straw or better yet a ballpoint.” Bruce reached down to his subconscious nudging Hulk. “I need Pepper and Happy awake, and we are going to need transportation.” Hulk roused and as he drifted closer to the surface Bruce’s vision cleared and became sharp, his nose twitched with the rancid smell of sick and rotting that was far too faint only moments ago.

  
Before he was finished Natasha flipped a deadly sharp knife from her boot and passed it to him. She pressed a thin comforting hand to his shoulder, using him to lever herself to a crouch. “I’ll be back with the ride.”

  
“Good.” He tilted his head knocking his temple against her arm in silent thanks forgetting for a moment about the odd distance between them.

  
She hummed softly and left, the bushes hissing and rustling in her wake.

  
He doesn’t linger on her fading silhouette, but instead passes Pepper the flashlight and taking charge of the situation.

  
“Keep that light right here.” Bruce gently touched a spot just below Scott’s barely visible Adam’s apple, “Happy, I need you to hold him down.”

  
Carefully Bruce tilted Scott’s head back and felt out where exactly the Adam’s apple was placed. Keeping a finger pressed into the delicate film between the ridges of his trachea Bruce took the nib of the ballpoint between his teeth and spat out the ink cartridge. Holding the empty plastic barrel in his teeth he carefully sliced into the thin watery skin of Scott’s throat. Immediately fluid welled up through the small slice, not blood, but a viscus translucent yellowed fluid that stank of rot.

  
Scott jerked weakly against Happy’s hold.

  
“Hold him still Hap.” Bruce grunted through the pen.

  
Happy nervously firmed his hold on Scott, eyes flicking from Bruce to the incision. “I got him, Doc.”

  
Wiping the fluid away with the collar of Scott’s shirt, Bruce pinched the incision, gently probing and widening it. The fluid continued to lazily bubble up, dribbling down the sides of Scott’s neck as Bruce worked. Steeling his nerves Bruce inserted the hollowed pen barrel, his hand steady despite the hammering of his heart. He wiggled the barrel deeper, millimeter by millimeter, popping through sinew and settling into place. The silence was broken by a soft gurgling gasp as the air was sucked through the pen barrel.

  
“Is he going to be alright?” Pepper’s voice rippled with emotion, but her hand holding the light was firm and steady.

  
Bruce shook his shaggy heady, scrubbing his hands in the leaves and dirt to clean away any of the fluid.

  
“Not unless he gets some professional help.” Bruce said feeling the exhaustion creep upon him for the first time. Hulk groaned in his head, tired, drawing back to the depths of Bruce’s mind, the sharpened vision and sense of smell he had borrowed faded into a dull throbbing headache.

  
As if on cue a a rumble of an engine stopped overhead, tires crunched gravel as a bright beam of light passed over their heads illuminating the boughs of the pines. Soon Natasha was sliding down the hill and into the bushes.

  
“Are we ready to go?” she asked breathless with a smudge of dirt on her nose.

  
Bruce gave a curt nod. “Happy give me a hand.”

  
By some miracle of God he and Happy managed to shuffle Scott up the steep incline using the scavenged afghan. Scott moaned weakly as they shuffled him over the guard rail and into the back of a van Natasha had managed to procure. Happy in the driver’s seat took off as fast as he could, high beams bright as he navigated through abandoned vehicles.

  
Bruce was tired, he could feel it sneaking back up on him. That foggy lead limbed feeling seeping deep into his bones. It was a herculean effort to keep his gritty sandpaper eyelids open, the adrenaline that coursed through his body fizzing out as he leaned back against the side of the van, resting his cheek on the textured plastic.  
He had done this before, sitting sentinel over the dying.

  
India was the last time, he thought to himself, remembering the thick hot night, tall grasses and thick leaves. The scent of wood smoke was acidic and hung limp in the air, wide eyed faces peeked curiously form behind old rag curtains as Bruce was led to a low roofed home, ramshackle with dirt floors and corrugated metal siding. A woman stood in the open doorway, clasping her hands, fear driving thick lines at the corners of her mouth and dark eyes.

  
Bruce’s Bengali wasn’t good, but he got the gist. It was the woman’s grandson. The fellow who brought Bruce to the small hovel spoke with the woman, translating for Bruce. It was an accident, the young man was helping his Uncle break down an old rusted truck, the metal and usable parts could be sold or repurposed. It was a rusty goldmine for the family and had been sitting out back for far too long. As the extended family crawled over the bed and the cab like ants with sledgehammers and hacksaws, the young man had crawled beneath the truck to help with the tedious mechanical dismemberment and one wrong cut had the heavy guts of the vehicle dropping out and directly onto him.

  
The old woman dragged him through the threshold, one old gnarled hand grasping his in a tight grip, the other fidgeting with her Sari. She spoke fast, her wind in the grass voice rasped and wavered, tears just on the edge. Bruce didn’t have to understand to know the woman was pleading. He grasped her hand between his own, her small leathered hand disappearing between his larger ones, and in broken, stuttering Bengali assured her he would do what he could.

  
He was taken through a small and crowded room filled with ashen faced family members to a room in the far back of the home. Inside, the light was low and the smell of festering wounds was heavy. Bruce was honestly surprised that the young man was still alive, if barely. He remembered distinctly the sound of whistling as the young man’s broken body tried desperately to keep running. With only a glance, he knew there was little he could do for him, but he did his due diligence and examined him and redressed the wounds. There might not have been much Bruce could do to save his life, but Bruce did have some smuggled drugs that could ease his passing. He explained what was happening as he helped the drugs down the boy’s throat, his interpreter haltingly translating his words for the family.

  
He sulked in a dark corner of the home, watching with sad eyes as the large family gathered around the young man, holding his hands, stroking his hair and face, even an aunt grasped onto his foot. Any part of him they could touch, they did, burning the memory of him into their skin as he faded away.

  
Here in the van, in the Colorado mountains, far from that small village he found himself stepping into shoes he hadn’t filled in some time. Except, here bumping in a dark stolen van, Dr. Scott wasn’t surrounded by loving family, Bruce didn’t know if he even had a family to grieve for him, instead he was surrounded by people who were suspicious of him at best. He took Scott’s hand, the soft flesh like pudding in cellophane and rested his head back. Nobody deserved to die alone.

  
Hulk’s deep growling in his head brought Bruce blinking and aware.

  
The world was quiet.

  
Weak gray dawn trickled through low pregnant clouds, mist slithered thick across the blacktop and through the brush that tickled the side of the road. No birds or insects could be heard through the open windows this early in the morning, the air smelt thick and heavy with the tang of an impending storm tickling the back of his throat. Bruce dug his knuckles into the corners of his eyes, digging out the sandy grit that glued his lashes together.

  
“Get your wits about you, Banner.” Hulk’s low thunder echoed between his ears. “Your patients coming around.”

  
And true to his other half’s words there was a slight pressure on his hand. Scott’s eyes had cracked through the caked yellow gunk, glistening bright with fever, flitting about. His dry tongue rasped at swollen lips looking for a drop of life giving moisture.

  
“Easy there.” Bruce whispered, as to not wake the other passengers. “Drink this.”

  
He propped Scotts head up on his knee and gently dribbled a thin stream of water onto his parched tongue.

  
“Thanks.” Scott hissed, his voice a weak rasp, head falling back limply to Bruce’s lap, the pen barrel embedded in his throat bobbing.

  
“It’s nothing.” He grunted wetting the edge of the blanket to mop at Scotts brow.

  
Silence reigned, the only sound to be heard was the gentle breathing of Pepper, curled tight in her seat, forehead pressed against the cool widow. Happy was taking the trip as fast as he could, but the irregular appearances of abandoned vehicles and other obstacles kept him moving at a careful clip.

  
“What’s happening to me Doctor Banner?” Scott asked eyes rolling behind the slits of his eyelids.

  
“Wish I could tell you, but I haven’t the faintest.”

  
“Am i going to die?”

  
Bruce heaved a large sigh and pinched his eyes closed. “Probably.”

  
Scott moaned lowly in the back of his throat, such a pitiful sound. Bruce politely ignoring the shuddering sobs that shuddered through Scott.

  
“There’s a good chance that we can get you to a hospital and to some specialist. I know a few people that could help.” Bruce said to ease the guilt squeezing his chest.  
Scott laughed, watery and sad, the pen barrel whistled. He weakly waved a hand in the air between them, brushing Bruce’s sympathies to the side.

  
“It’s kinda funny, I don’t think anybody dies like they expect to. I always figured I would die of a heart attack or chocking on a chicken bone, not swelling up like a tick on a dick.” His head lolled in a weak attempt to dodge the damp cloth.

  
“You know you don’t have to sit here babying me.”

  
Bruce shrugs and presses the cloth to his forehead.

  
“I wouldn’t blame you if you just rolled me out the back and left me for those monsters.”

  
Bruce’s brows furrow, “Why would you say that?”

  
Scott awkwardly quirked an eyebrow.

  
Ok, so a mere few hours ago Bruce would have loved nothing more than to scare the piss out of Scott, to wipe away that smug smirk as he poked and needled at Bruce’s most sensitive wounds, but to leave him for dead?

  
No, Bruce could never do that.

  
“It’s nice to see the Incredible Hulk is a bigger man than most.” Scott sighed and relaxed back into the thin afghan.

  
Bruce felt Hulk puff and preen in the back of his mind.

  
“I’m no bigger than anyone else, my Mother and my Aunt just made sure I had a good set of morals.”

  
“Aunt?”

  
Bruce nodded and gave him a very brief rundown of growing up under his Aunt’s roof. Aunt Susan didn’t really know how to deal with children, never having any of her own and only having seen her nephew a few scant times, she didn’t know how to treat a ten-year-old boy who had retreated so far into himself. She went by the seat of her pants, and had probably messed up more than most but she made damn sure her nephew knew his morals, his music and he was as happy as she could make him. They had odd eclectic Christmas’ full of classic Bing Crosby, Burl Ives, Nat King Cole their own traditions of lop sided gingerbread molecule models. Easter Sunday’s spent in church and latter Bruce quizzing her about the eggs and rabbits thing, she never thought to tell him the same nonsense other parents would tell their children but instead spoke frankly and truthfully. They went to the movies, ate rotisserie chicken on thanksgiving instead of turkey, she allowed him to stay up late to watch as Baron Von Wolfstein presented the nights creature feature. Aunt Susan even joined him on many occasion, with her sewing on her lap as she watched with rapt attention only to scoff during commercial breaks.

  
Bruce tells him about the day Aunt Susan was called to the principal’s office after he had “instigated” a fight. Bruce could hear her from his seat, two rooms away on the bench in front of the secretary’s office. Aunt Susan came out of that office livid, fire burning through her, sending her normally well-kept bun to frizz. She pulled Bruce from that school throwing uncharacteristic obscenities over her shoulder the whole walk home.

  
“She sounds like my wife.” Scott wheezed. “Stubborn, maternal, and scary.”

  
“You have a wife.”

  
Scott hummed, “Mary, and I have a son, Will.”

  
“What are they like?” Bruce was truly curious and hopefully it would be a good distraction for Scott.

  
A violent coughing fit over came Scott, phlegmy and wet, the pen barrel almost dislodging from the incision at the base of his throat.

  
Face screwed up and red, Scott asked “What now?”

  
“Your family, tell me about them.”

  
Bruce helped him back into a comfortable recline.

  
He nods, chin coming to a rest on his chest and Bruce thinks he might have drifted off.

  
“Mary has always been my better half. I know people say that all the time, but for me, she really is.” He huffs a chuckle. “If she had her way, and if I wasn’t such an arrogant bastard, I wouldn’t even be here. She thought I should leave well enough alone and let those government men tease the Hulk themselves, but I though i knew better. I thought this was going to be a great opportunity for my career, if i could break the Hulk, i would be the most respected man in my field.”

  
“Worked out well for you didn’t it.” The jab slipped past his teeth, a slimy eel of sarcasm and barely restrained vitriol.

  
“I’m sorry for what I tried to do.” Scott said, “I suppose an apology doesn’t mean much when I’ve only seen the error in my ways on my death bed, but.” He spread his hands in a ‘what are you going to do’ type of gesture.

  
Bruce gently patted Scotts uninjured shoulder. “What about your son?”

  
“Will’s a good boy.” Pride had crept into his voice when the subject of his son was breached. “He’s all his mother, thank god, a sophomore in high school, gets good grades and plays some damn good baseball. That boy has the best arm I’ve ever seen, he’s already got schools hounding him, he could probably go pro, but I don’t think that’s what he wants. He’s always loved his English classes, always has his nose in a book. He writes to, I’ve read some bits here and there, when he lets me, and he’s good. That’s not a father bragging, he’s good.”

  
“Sure sounds like some kid.” Bruce smiles softly.

  
Scott stares up at the ceiling of the van, his eyes misting over as he looked through the metal and plastic and laid eyes on his wife and son.

  
“I’ve got some advice for you, Dr. Banner, free of charge. I’ve read up enough on you to know any time happiness might be in your grasp you panic and sabotage it for yourself. Your time with Dr. Ross is a testament to that. No, don’t interrupt me, you know I’m right.” Bruce’s teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut. “When that happiness comes calling again, don’t let it go.”

  
Bruce’s clenched his jaw, his gaze snapping to the passenger seat and the bright red hair that haloed around the head rest. From what Bruce, could tell it looked like she was sleeping, seat reclined back her head lolling with each bump in the road, but the chance she was diligently listening in on their conversation was equally high.  
Scott pats his arm sympathetically. “Whatever it is between you, you should talk to her.”

  
“You obviously don’t know her that well. She’s tough to get to open up once let alone again, and my window closed on that opportunity.”

  
Scott shrugged, sagging back, his eyes drooping. “You never know if you don’t try, Banner. Life’s too short to be hung up on maybes.”

  
Soon Scott had fallen back to unconsciousness, leaving Bruce with some things to think of.

  
“Is he…” Happy was glancing back through the rearview mirror trying his hardest to pretend he hadn’t been listening, one hand on the wheel the other held an old flip phone he must have found in the vehicle.

  
“Not yet. Is that thing working?”

  
Happy growled as his eyes flicked down to glare at the device in his hand. “No, calls ain’t going through.” He said as he jabbed the green send button and shoved it under his ear.

  
“Keep trying.”

  
He growled again in agreement, redialing again.

  
Natasha had stirred, turning in her seat to peek over the headrest to watch him with wide green eyes. There was so much there in her eyes while her face was as still as stone, so much it was hard to interpret; grief, sympathy, confusion, anger, and something he didn’t think he wanted to look too hard at.

  
“He said to talk.” Hulk muttered.

  
He didn’t think it would be good form to dig around in old wounds while a man died in his lap.

  
“He did say not to wait.” He could feel the Hulk shrug mighty shoulders.

 

He grips Scotts hand firmly in his own, perhaps he should clear the air with Natasha. Maybe now was as good a time as any to remove the albatross that hung heavy around his neck, pecking and worrying at his chest.

  
But what would he say?

  
What could he say?

  
Sorry I left you high and dry to go fight in space gladiatorial ring.

  
Bruce didn’t think that would go over so well. He counted himself lucky she had been speaking with him through the past days. Back at the facility, he couldn’t remember if they had ever been alone long enough to talk without the forced, jaw clenched small talk.

  
“Nat.”

  
She blinked over the back rest, looking expectant.

  
God, how could he bring this up. So much has happened between Sokovia and now, so much he had missed and wasn’t there for. His throat gummed up and the words stuttered and died on his tongue as he saw Happy’s curious gaze flicking in the review mirror.

  
“Nat, I- “But before he could stumble through some kind of speech or explanation, Scott’s fingers spasms in his hand, his body jerking and twitching.

  
“PULL OVER!” Bruce shouts, laying Scott out flat.

  
The Van jerked to a stop, driver and passenger doors opening and slamming, Pepper’s voice confused and concerned. Bruce paid them no mind as Scott convulsed, eyes bugging, sickly yellow foam crawling past his lips and through the pen barrel in his throat. It took all of Bruce’s strength to hold Scott down, other hands came to press his shoulders into the carpet.

  
Scott gasps once.

  
Twice.

  
And then the taunt muscles relaxed, sinking quiet and lifeless to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven, she is my rock and without her constant encouragement I would have slunk away from this a long time ago.
> 
> Fear not, even if it took me a very long time getting this out I have no intention of abandoning this and come hell or high water it will someday be finished!

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp at long last it's take two for this bad boy! There have been some major overhauls but the spirit and general idea have mostly stayed the same!
> 
> Thank you everybody for being so patient, and thanks as always to IReallyHopeThisMakesUsEven, she has been a wonderful sounding board and has kept me on track and reined me in when I went to far into left field.


End file.
